Love, War & Parenthood
by Molly4Holmes
Summary: Just a small series of ficlets, some short, some a little longer, about a bounty hunter and a lovely young widow.
1. Chapter 1

I've only ever seen the three original _Star Wars_ movies, and maybe _The Phantom Menace _(?). But I'm totally on it with _The Mandalorian_. This is just kind of a fun exercise. I don't write sci-fi. I just like writing about people, real or imagined, and how they behave, and I figure that must transcend all styles of fiction. I've given The Child a name, but that's for a future installment, and if/when we ever learn his real name, if he's given one, I'll just pop in and change it. But I ran out of different euphemisms for 'child' and 'kid'.

**HUMAN, ACTUALLY**

"You're a damn good shot."

Omera shrugged, glancing nervously toward the woods surrounding the encampment—what if the Raiders heard all the ruckus and came to investigate? She looked at him, her feeling of unease slowly fading—no Klatoonian would be stupid enough to cross this intimidating, soft-spoken, shy man. "I learned what I needed to know."

"For life here?" The Mandalorian gestured slightly toward the woods. "Before those things started raiding, I mean." He paused, and she had to cover a smile. "I mean, this kind of place hardly needs a stockpile of weapons in normal… er… circumstances."

"Very true. Until those Klatooinians arrived, we used spears for hunting and fishing, and that's not effective against them and those… walker things," she said bitterly, putting the rifle down. "Bloody filth. As if they couldn't have just come and _purchased_ some of our krill for their own brewing. Raiding for _krill_? I'm not even that fond of spotchka! Frankly, I can do without it. If I was going to raid for something, it would be for… I don't know, good leather or… " she glanced at him. "Beskar steel."

She could feel his smile, even if she couldn't see it. "I take it these guys aren't winning any contests for brains?"

She smiled slightly. "No. Big, smelly, mean and stupid-they've cornered the market on that! With proper training, we could use them as beasts of burden."

"That would take some effort."

Omera laughed, watching her daughter and the Mandalorian's tiny charge make their way across the levy between two paddys. "He's just so adorable, and so funny and sweet. The children adore him."

"Well, yeah… I suppose. He's… a troublemaker, like any boy, that's for sure. He's definitely charming. Aside from eating frogs… "

"Yes, well, children do truly horrifying things. My first few days alone with Winta were a _nightmare_, and her first year, I don't think I slept a wink."

"What, your husband was no help?"

"My husband was already dead."

"Oh."

She felt his steady gaze, knowing he was sympathetic but a bit too shy to pry. So she opted to volunteer, however much it made her a bit shaky to speak of her husband. Her marriage, brief as it had been, seemed like only a brief and pleasant dream.

"He was killed in the Rebellion. I was already heavy with Winta when I got word of his death. She looks like him, in some ways… she's the only tangible image I really have of him. He was a good man, and very kind. Not always _nice_, but I prefer kind over nice any day."

"He wasn't nice to you?" he asked, and she could have sworn she saw him bristling a bit.

She laughed. "He was quite nice to me, I assure you. I wouldn't have married him if he hadn't been, and my father would have shot him dead if he had been anything other than gentle and respectful, but he spoke the truth, even if the truth wasn't _nice_. But he lived by certain rules—he never spoke unless what he was saying wasn't truthful, necessary or kind. So even if the truth _wasn't_ pleasant, it was still _necessary_, and he did possess a good bit of tact—he always said there was a good bit of power in keeping your mouth shut." She smiled, glad that memories of her husband no longer stung. "If he had nothing to say, he didn't say it—a rare quality, I think, in most people. Some folks blither on when they've nothing worth saying at all."

"Yes. They're called politicians."

She laughed. "But he was ferocious in defending the helpless. The Rebels were impressed by him—they said he was fearless, but he told me that any man who goes into battle unafraid is an idiot."

Omera smoothly stripped the rifle and reloaded it with remarkable ease, and looked at the now rather battered pot hanging from the line. "He taught me how to defend myself, and how to use weapons." She sighed. "He was from a warrior clan, and I was anything _but_. My family has been krill farmers for generations—the most violent we ever got was to serve in the district militia, and that was just settling property disputes and family squabbles, and really, we generally work too hard to get into arguments about property lines. I had never even _seen_ a blaster until the Empire came along and made a bloody mess of everything… so he taught me."

"I would have hated to have crossed him, if he was as good a shot as you."

She smiled at him, knowing his eyes were on her, which made her want to preen like a giggly teenager. "He would have liked you. You two were cut from the same cloth—gruff and quiet and with a heart of pure gold."

The Mandalorian shuffled his feet a little, and Omera sensed that shyness again—a sort of social awkwardness common amongst loners like himself. But it was also very clear that he craved human contact, albeit strictly on his own terms. Maybe a touch that wasn't a punch, a quiet talk in the shade, and maybe even a warm body beside him at night, or, preferably, underneath…

She blushed—good heavens, had it really be ten years?—and looked back across the levy. She smiled as Winta picked up the tiny green child and carried him across the footbridge and started back toward the little smallholding. "Mama, he's caught four frogs already!" the girl called proudly.

"That's why I only eat _after_ he's eaten," the Mandalorian said, with a kind of exasperated affection in his voice. "Otherwise, I'd lose my own lunch."

Omera snickered. "He does have a strange diet, but no two species are alike."

"True enough."

She looked at him for a moment, pondering carefully before finally asking. "What do Mandalorians eat?"

"Eh? Oh. Um… we're not really a… a different species. I'm… uh… human, actually, so I'm not his species. Being a Mandalorian is more of a way of life. A creed. So I can eat anything I like. Well, I can handle almost anything. Can't really do frogs. I never expected to be handling a child, though, much less a kid who eats frogs. It never even occurred to me that I ever would… I mean, I never… I never imagined being in that kind of situation… "

"So he's not your biological child?" she asked, her voice gently teasing.

"No… no, I… well, obv—I've never been married." He looked away, across the paddys, and shuffled his feet a bit, like a shy little boy. She laughed, softly, and just knew he was blushing.


	2. Chapter 2

Cara Dune was amused by the Mandalorian's behavior around Omera. It was clear the man had no experience with women, or if he had experience, it had been purely academic or possibly just unhappy. She didn't peg him as the type to pay for affection—she knew only a few things about Mandalorians, but she had heard that many of the old clans were rather puritanical in their approach to sex.

Not that she had anything against that herself —a man with self-control was something to behold, after all. She had always found old-fashioned men to be rather sweet, in fact. They were more interesting, anyway, than men who were constantly trying to mount anything with breasts and appropriate orifices.

Still, to see such a hard, fierce guy so clearly smitten with a lovely young woman and yet be totally clueless about what to do about it was kind of funny. Not that she would say anything like that to his face. Or to his helmet, for that matter.

Still, she did feel a tiny twinge of jealousy about the fact that he was attracted to Omera and not herself. But that's life, Cara thought with a slight shrug. She was a warrior. Romance was not in her line. It obviously was for him, and warriors genuinely appreciated coming home to someone warm and soft who wasn't inclined towards trying to kill them. Unless they left whiskers in the sink or their underwear on the floor.

"What?"

She glanced at him, barely able to conceal a smile as he caught a little blue fish that was flopping around on the ground in front of him and handed it to the child, who gleefully gobbled it up. That kid could eat anything.

"Eh, just thinking."

She waited for some kind of witty comeback from the Mandalorian, but he was keeping a sharp eye on the kid and seemed only vaguely aware of her presence. Besides, he only used sarcasm when annoyed.

"About what? When it'll rain again?" Yesterday's downpour had caused everyone, including the Mandalorian—staying in the barn—to get thoroughly soaked. The kid had been delighted with the rain and had spent all day romping in mud puddles with the village children, getting wonderfully dirty, like kids should do. Cara knew that Mando had slipped away at some point and had bathed, probably for the first time in what she figured was quite a while, and she wondered just how many scars he had. Not that she was going to risk her life by sneaking a peek. She took a sip of her spotchka, covering a smile—if _Omera_ had decided to take a peek, she couldn't imagine Mando belaboring her with his blaster. At least not with _that_ blaster. If he was maybe a little more comfortable in his own skin, he could have invited her to join him in the tub.

"Nah. Just enjoying the sunshine. This place… it's peaceful. Probably too peaceful for either one of us. Now that those Klatooinians have left, it's _extremely_ quiet. I'm not used to sleeping in, much less just sitting around watching the grass grow. Not that it hasn't been a nice little respite from… chaos, but… "

He was silent, tossing another fish to the child, who jumped on it and ate it eagerly. "Are you ever _not_ hungry?" Mando asked, and the kid toddled over to him, raising his arms, signaling he wanted to be held. Mando sighed and picked the boy up, settling him on his knee. "You little womp rat… you smell like mud and krill."

Cara smiled. Imagine, a Mandalorian—tough as nails, ruthless, battle-hardened and relentless—going all soft for a little green kid. But there he was, dangling the kid on his knee and grumbling to him in a remarkably gentle tone that indicated genuine affection. She had never seen him act even vaguely impatient with the kid, even yesterday when the little creature had spread mud all over his boots after the rain and toddled away, giggling at the trouble he had caused.

"It's… okay."

"Well, yeah. For a little kid, definitely. A little kid deserves a peaceful place to live. Other kids to play with—a home, a family… a mother and father... that kinda thing." Cara glanced at Mando, hoping he was getting the point. He was bouncing the kid, who was gurgling happily and kicking his little legs.

Mando sat back, relaxing, and Cara realized he had dozed off. The kid continued gurgling, then turned around and clambered up almost to Mando's shoulder, making a happy cooing sound.

"That kid likes you."

Of course, Mando said nothing, but Cara knew the battered bounty hunter loved the little scamp. The child sighed and snuggled up against his surrogate father, closing his eyes and falling asleep against the hard beskar armor, and Cara wondered how he would handle it if anything happened to the little creature. Or better yet, how the kid would handle losing the Mandalorian.

Not well on either part, she knew. The kid would pine away forever for his Papa, and Mando would die inside.

"He's fifty years old," Mando said quietly. "Four years older than me."

Cara smiled. "So what? Years are just numbers. And we know species age differently, at different rates."

"True. But it's weird."

She sensed, then, that the idea also saddened Mando. Even if the bounty hunter lived to be a hundred, the kid would have hundreds of years to go before he was even able to care for himself. Mando would only be able, at best, to get the kid started on his journey. He would not live to see the destination.

She shrugged. "You know, he'd be really happy here."

"He is, I think. He'll outlive all these kids, and end up playing with their great-grandkids and _still_ be a kid himself. He'll never be short of playmates."

Cara laughed, gently, thinking Mando might have use for at least one playmate of his own. "Maybe he'd end up playing with y—… "

"Second meal is ready," someone called from somewhere in the little village, a bell ringing to call everyone in from the paddys. Mando got up, taking care not to wake the child, and went into the barn. Cara watched him carefully settle the sleeping child in the crib Omera had provided, and waited until he came back outside.

"I'll get you some food and bring it back," she said, standing.

"Thank you." He settled back into his chair and leaned back against the wall, relaxing. It was soon very clear that he was asleep. Ah, parenthood, Cara thought with a soft snicker. Never pass up an opportunity for some sleep when you have a kid around!

Walking back to the center of the little village, where everyone usually gathered to eat second meal, she decided to send Omera over to deliver Mando's meal and let nature take its course.


	3. Chapter 3

It occurred to Mando, a few days after the Klatooinians had been driven out, that he was spending way too much time with Omera.

What, had he lost his _mind_? For that matter, had she gone mad for allowing it?

He was taking walks with her in the evenings, after supper, leaving the kid with his enthusiastic young babysitters. Sometimes he didn't even talk, but would just listen to Omera's soothing voice telling him stories about her family and farm life. Some of the stories were hilarious or bizarre… or both. The one she was currently telling him made him have to stop and catch his breath.

"… husband was accidentally caught up in a thresher… she obviously didn't mean to run him over with it, but she got back home that evening to make supper and he wasn't around, and she went looking for him, but he had apparently just _vanished_. So later she and the farm workers were going through the grain and suddenly she said, "Oh, wait, this is a piece of Tiko's shirt… and this is a piece of Tiko's trousers… and this is a piece of Tiko's arm… "

"Stop, stop," he finally said, unable to contain his laughter. "You have got to be making that up."

"I'm not. It really happened," Omera said, her expression sincere, but there was a wicked little sparkle in her eyes. She frowned and made a box with her hands. "His coffin was really, really small… "

He had to sit down then, and dropped down onto a fallen log. He hadn't really had a good laugh in a long time, and she looked pleased to be the one to lighten his mood.

What amazed him was that he never got tired of listening to her. What she said mattered; she had a way of cutting right through the crap and getting down to the point, and he learned a good deal about her childhood and her marriage, both of which had been happy and uncomplicated. All in all, she was a steady, level-headed and practical woman with an understanding heart and a puckish—and occassionally wicked—sense of humor.

Omera gestured with her hands when she talked, and was a born story-teller, holding his attention better than anyone he had ever known. He never felt compelled turn off the mic in his helmet around her, as he often did with other women when they started prattling, and he even found himself relaxing to the point of being languid, which was another thing he had never done before. Besides, Omera never prattled.

Once he had recovered from the story, they continued walking along the edge of the settlement until they came to a small orchard of various fruit trees planted near vegetable and herb gardens.

"My husband and I planted these trees here," she said, pointing to a small group of some sort of fast-growing fruit trees loaded with rich harvest ready for picking. "Grinjers don't like the fruit, so we always have plenty, and it was his favorite. I use the flesh for pies and with the ones that fell on their own, I make a kind of sweet cider that Winta loves." She reached up and snatched a round, red fruit from a low branch. She extracted a small, curved knife from her pocket and expertly cut into it and started to hand him a wedge. "Oh… sorry. I forgot you can't take the helmet off."

"I can't… I just… "

"Won't, then."

He caught a brief look of hurt in her eyes and he winced. It wasn't as though he didn't trust her, because he did. He suspected he could trust her with his life. Among other things. But he couldn't stray off of the Way. Not even for her. "I'm sorry, Omera. I… "

"It's the Way, right?"

"Right."

She bit into the piece of fruit and he felt a bit light-headed and wondered, for the millionth time, if her lips were as soft as they looked and if her skin would feel like silk. Just last night he had dreamed about lying in her bed with her, with her arms and legs hugging him, urging him on, and he had awakened to Omera calling to him from outside the door, telling him breakfast was ready and he had been too embarrassed to get up until after she gave up and left.

The urge to touch her was overwhelming, and his increasingly fevered dreams about her were anything but helpful with regard to his resolve and self-control. Watching her eat the wedge of sweet fruit—while pretending to watch some furry animal jump from one of the trees to another—he really wished he was that damned piece of fruit.

She turned away and stumbled over a root. He caught her arm, pulling her back around so she wouldn't fall, and for the briefest of moments her hands were on his chest, but the beskar prevented any real contact, and he felt so miserable he couldn't even put words to it.

She stood, gazing up at him with those lovely brown eyes.

Self-control. Duty. Honor. Tradition.

All those might just fall away, or their meanings could change entirely, if she ever really touched him. If she ever did touch him, he wouldn't want her to stop. He needed to find that barrier again and put it back up or he would end up hurting her, and he would never be able to forgive himself.

He struggled to regain his composure. "You're okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"I can't remove my helmet," he told her, hideously aware of the plea in his voice, glad and miserable that he was wearing it, because she would see the longing he was feeling.

"I know," she said softly.

Why did she have to be so understanding? She had accepted him from day one, and didn't judge him or get angry at him or throw pots or apply some very well-aimed blaster shots at him being such a closed-off idiot, and most nerve-wracking was that she wasn't even vaguely afraid of him. He suspected she could give him what-for if he ever pissed her off, and he knew he would never, ever strike her in self-defense. Maybe he'd just get her on the floor and tickle her into submission… and then do other things to her until his longing was satisfied. Things that were probably a hundred times more delicious than that fruit she was eating.

He wanted to tell her that he could only remove the helmet in the presence of his own wife or children, but he had no wife or children, unless one counted the kid. But if he told her about that exception to the rule, he would end up fumbling through probably the most awkward, boyish proposal in history and if she was half as sensible as he thought, she would turn him down and he would never recover.

_He was losing his mind_. He wanted her. So badly it made him ache. Until now, he was accustomed, if not totally resigned, to his loneliness, and yet here he was, standing in the woods with a woman who kept invading his dreams. Until her, he had never had any fantasies (delusions?) about love or romance or the kind of real intimacy that made all of that come together right. The kind of closeness that would result in children and a home and peaceful sleep with a warm body beside him and no need for armor or helmets.

It was getting dark, and he didn't like the risk of some kind of forest creature attacking her—he had not yet seen a living grinjer, but the dead ones he had seen were just about the ugliest creatures he had ever encountered, and were apparently ferocious. Fortunately, they were also so stupid that a person could walk up behind one and bonk it on the head with a stick, but they usually stayed up in the trees.

"We should start back."

She smiled at him, making his heart constrict and twist, and walked away toward the village. He stood there for a long time, then angrily punched one of the trees. A fruit fell, landed on his helmet and fell to the ground. He growled at the tree, the fruit, the sky and his own weakness. One of the more unsociable elders of his clan had told him that love equaled weakness, but he had never really believed that. No, it wasn't weakness at all. It was simply a matter of not having the strength to give or receive it.

He needed to get out of here or he would reach the end of his resolve and go mad. He would leave the kid with Omera, and knew he would enjoy life on Sargon and be raised by warm, loving people. He would tell Cara he was going, and he would tell Omera and he would start running again and cut her out of his heart and mind and his dreams. Ruthlessly… even brutally, if necessary, because he knew no other way but _the_ Way, and while that would never give him any degree of peace or contentment, at least he was familiar with it.

So resignation really could make a man a coward.

He snatched up the fallen fruit and strode back to the barn, growling to himself. Inside, he closed the door and removed his helmet, needing to breath clearly and rub his eyes and tell himself _again_ that he didn't want to stay, and that he didn't want this life and that he didn't love Omera, _dammit_. He fumbled around for his knife and cut the red fruit into wedges and sat on his bed. The kid, awakened by Mando's arrival, cooed at him, and he cut a piece for him. The boy chewed on it in a disarmingly thoughtful way, and immediately reached out for another piece.

"You like sweet stuff too? Not suprising—you seem to like anything edible. Or even stuff that's not edible. Like spanners and electric wiring." The boy took another piece and ate it happily, chittering at him and making that purring sound he made when he was particularly pleased. "You'll like it here. You couldn't be with better people. I know she'll take you in—she's like that. I suspect she'd take me in, too, but… " He sighed and rubbed his face, then removed his armor and settled on the makeshift bed, stretching out, and wasn't at all surprised when the kid climbed out of the crib and shuffled up to the side of the bed, arms up. Mando sighed and picked the boy up and settled him down beside him. The boy kicked him in the ribs a couple of times, cooed and gabbled at him for a moment, and finally went to sleep.

Mando didn't sleep. He was afraid to. One more erotic dream about Omera and he would have to give in.

He would leave tomorrow. It was the only Way.


	4. Chapter 4

**NAVIGATIONAL ADJUSTMENT**

The kid was sucking on the tiny steel mythosaur skull, watching him curiously, and Din allowed his muscles to relax a little. His head was still hurting, but at least he wasn't bleeding out any more. Cara had said he had gotten his bell rung, and that was the understatement to beat all understatements. It felt like several bells were clanging loudly in his head, and he was starting to feel dizzy and even a little nauseated.

The fury and adrenaline and the accompanying high of his struggle on Moff Gideon's TIE-Fighter was gone now, replaced by sharp, cold pain and _utter_ exhaustion. It was odd that he really hadn't had much trouble digging a proper grave for Kuiil, much less to fly away from Nevarro, but now he wanted to lie down and sleep for a couple of months.

"Okay," he said, causing the child to stop sucking and look at him, cooing softly. "My head is killing me. I should probably stop somewhere and get some rest. Preferably while lying down. Heavily sedated." He started a quick search of places to go to lay low for a bit and recuperate, and drew in his breath when Sorgan's location came right up as the closest place to land.

He readjusted navigation and set the course for the little green planet, masochistically allowing himself to think for a moment about Omera. He usually refused to think about her while awake, but he couldn't keep her out of his dreams. Not even trying to chase her away had helped—that always led to her catching him, which led to him succumbing to pure _need_ (and why did she have to be so damned _willing_?!) and waking up overheated and elated.

When she had started to lift his helmet away, he had come within inches of allowing it and staying on Sorgan forever. He knew life with Omera would have been good. Peaceful, uncomplicated, comfortable… satisfying. With love and and companionship and good food (he would have to go hunting for something besides fish and krill, of course) and kids and a real _life_, but that damned bounty hunter had to ruin _everything_. Which is sort of a bounty hunter's job, really, but he saw no reason to dwell on that too much.

He was seeing double now, and thinking about foolish things.

"So I'll just avoid her. That would be best for… for her. I'll land on some… some other side of the planet, right? Some place where you can run around and catch frogs… and enjoy some fresh air and sunshine… and… and I can lie down for a bit and kill off this headache before it kills me. Just don't make me watch you eat the frogs… "

The kid continued sucking on the tiny piece of steel, but he was starting to look a bit concerned. Particularly when Din took the helmet off and settled his head back against the seat, groaning from the pain and exhaustion.

Din managed somehow to navigate into the planet's atmosphere and get to a clearing to land, but he was less than steady—the Razor Crest landed with a heavy thud, sending birds wheeling into the sky and forest animals running for their lives. He somehow managed to turn the engines off before settling back in the chair and drifting off to sleep, unable to outdo the concussion and blood loss any more.


	5. Chapter 5

**RECUPERATION**

Omera was stitching a net and keeping an eye on her daughter and some other children roughhousing near the paddys, and when a group of birds suddenly came rushing out of the woods, she stood up, alarmed. _Oh no… please, not the raiders again! _She reached under her seat to find the rifle the Mandalorian had left her and was pulling it out of its hiding place when she saw the child emerge from the inky darkness of the woods. He was toddling towards her, ears up and eyes wide with excitement and anxiety. When he saw her, he squealed and waved.

She rushed out to him, crouching down to examine him anxiously. "Where on earth… how did you get here?" she asked. She picked him up and carefully patted his body, checking for injuries, but he was obviously in excellent health, but she noticed that his little brown cloak was a little singed.

Cooing anxiously, the child made a gesture towards the woods behind him. Omera immediately headed into the woods, the child making more cheerful noises, so that as she walked she grew calmer—if the child wasn't in a panic, then she suspected she shouldn't be either, but clearly the child's minder needed help.

Omera knew there was a small clearing not far ahead, and she picked up her pace as she walked, looking back to note that the children hadn't followed—they had not yet seen the child, which was probably a good thing. Keeping them all together and focused was often like herding lothcats. She rushed on, familiar with every fallen log, root and stone along the little game trail, until she got to the clearing and saw the hulking silver Razor Crest. The child gurgled and pointed a little clawed finger at the ship, looking expectantly at her as she expertly cradled in him in the crook of her arm.

Cautiously, Omera walked up the ramp and entered the ship, the child wiggling in her arms and pointing up. She carefully settled the little one on the floor and gave him a firm 'stay here or else!' look before climbing up.

The Mandalorian was unconscious in the pilot's chair, his helmet off. There were bloodstains on the garment beneath his beskar steel, and blood and sweat was staining the seat. His hair was sweaty and caked with blood, and dried blood streaked across his face. Omera hesitated, not sure how he might react to being seen without his helmet, but her instincts were already kicking in—she had to help him, regardless of the consequences.

The helmet was on the floor beside him, and she carefully picked it up, setting it on the other seat behind his, and gingerly turned the pilot's chair towards herself. For a brief, horrible moment she thought he was dead, but his eyes suddenly opened and he was staring at her, dark eyes wide and confused and… frightened? "What… Omera… where… where's the kid…"

"Shh. He's all right. _You've_ been injured." She touched the back of his head and felt the closed wound, but she knew a concussion when she saw one. The wound wasn't seeping any more, at least, but Omera knew that head wounds bleed a _lot_, and it was clear he had lost quite a bit of blood, possibly not just from wounds on his head. His injuries were clearly quite serious, but treatable, and he would require a good bit of care before he stopped seeing double and passing out every time he stood up.

"Helmet… "

"Forget about the blasted helmet," she said sternly. "You look like you've been chewed up and spat out by a ganjuko."

"Dreaming… I'm dreaming. Nice to sleep… an' see you… get to… like it when you don't resist…" His speech was slurred, and if it were not for his scars and bloodstreaked face, she would have thought he was drunk. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut against the sunlight pouring into the cockpit. "Nice to see… both of you.. didn't know you had a… a twin. I don't swing that way… prefer just one… of you… you're enough… "

Omera sighed, flattered and exasperated. He had had his bell rung, and _very_ badly, because she couldn't imagine him saying such things while in his own right mind. "You need rest and quiet, that's what," Omera said. "But can you sleepwalk? I think it'll require more than just me and my twin to get you out of here."

"Omera… so beauti—" His eyes closed again and his head dropped back against the seat, and she sighed, knowing there was no way she was going to get him to his feet. She stood back, hands on her hips, thinking and studying him. Clearly he had been through a terrible ordeal, and had suffered more than a few injuries.

For all that, he was an impressive sight. Not handsome, really, but striking, and there was nothing remotely pretty about him. He was extremely _male_, with dark hair and dark eyes and rugged features, with a Roman nose and a firm chin, both of which indicated a strong will. Omera had never liked a weak-chinned man ("A weak chin equals a weak character… and he'll be lousy in bed, too," her grandmother had once told her, in her usual terrifyingly blunt way), and had always appreciated men who weren't afraid to be _men_. She knew how to handle them properly, too: just offer food, praise and sex (or at least the idea of the third item—flirting a little usually did the trick when it came to bartering at the market) and they were perfectly happy. She and her husband had developed a rather fun routine: supper in bed, followed by sex and then a round of applause. Needless to say, they had laughed a lot together.

Her husband had definitely appreciated her cooking and her ability to be encouraging, and he had raved about her uninhibited skills in bed, and their marriage had been happy. She had gone to his bed a virgin, but neither she nor her husband were prudish, and they had enjoyed a vigorous and satisfying physical relationship. She had no regrets about him, and nothing had gone unsaid before he had left.

And she damn sure _missed_ sex. Until now, she hadn't felt any particular urge to go beyond the necessary flirting to get a good price on grinjer meat. Ever since she had met this carefully controlled, reserved man, however, she had been having some vivid and quite erotic dreams, and they certainly didn't stop at flirtation. She sensed that he was also very inexperienced, and that made her dreams even more heated and exciting. To initiate a strong, fearless warrior like him, who was so clearly capable of tenderness, would be… well, _delightful_. And to now know what he looked like… well, the masked-man fantasy could be replaced easily enough with that face. Not that the helmet didn't have its good points…

She heard a giggling sound behind her and looked back at the child, who was standing in the doorway, head cocked to one side, eyes bright and cheerful. "You little scamp… you're very naughty for disobeying!"

The child didn't seem concerned. He toddled to the Mandalorian and touched his leg, cooing and looking up at Omera with the same expectant expression on his face. She sighed and retrieved the helmet. "You needn't tell anyone I saw his face," she told the child, putting aside inappropriate fantasies for now. "I won't tell anyone, and I don't think he really knows—I think he's taken quite a knock to his head, so frankly I'm not sure if he'll even remember. So neither one of us needs to say anything about it. Deal?"

She settled the child on his lap, then gently brushed Mando's sweaty hair back from his forehead and touched his cheek and looked down at the child. "What _happened_ to him?"

The child had no answer. He just cooed and made that strange and adorable purring sound that he made that had every female near him wanting to pick him up and cuddle him.

It took some careful maneuvering, but she finally got his helmet back on, muttering about how it couldn't possibly be comfortable. "Stay with your Papa. Nobody hurts your Papa again, right?" she said, gently stroking the child's fuzzy little head.

The child nodded and snuggled against the Mandalorian, tiny claws scratching lightly against the beskar, and Omera knew he wouldn't budge until she came back.


	6. Chapter 6

**DAMAGES**

It took four men from the village to get the Mandalorian off the ship and into the settlement, and he woke up several times as they carried him, growling and even hissing at them in indignant fury and obvious pain. Omera had him brought into her own house and put him in her bed, which she knew would have everyone's tongues wagging, but she didn't care.

It took a good bit of undoing of straps and all kinds of strange buttons and clips to get his armor off, and then it was quite a struggle to get his undergarments off, and he grumbled when she removed his helmet. Finally, she was able to check him over for other wounds, and was pleased to see only old scars—and there was a _lot_ of them—and a few fresh, raw scrapes. His blood and sweat stained her sheets, but that didn't matter to her. Sheets clean easily enough. Injuries are much more complicated.

It was rather nice to see _all_ of him—he was certainly well built, being lean and strong, with hard muscles, and everything was very nicely… _proportional_. Omera washed him thoroughly with towels dipped in hot water, ignoring his growling and _sotto voce_ curses in Mando'a and other languages, as she carefully sluiced blood and sweat away into a basin and doing her best to be matter-of-fact with regard to where she had to touch him.

His head wound had put out a lot of blood, so that took the most time, but after several rinsings and letting him growl at her as he pleased, the water in the bowl on the bedside table was finally clear.

He looked considerably less miserable and uncomfortable, though it amused her to watch a man scowl in his sleep. With his wounds properly cleaned, she placed a bandage over the wound, which had been sealed with what seemed like a bacta spray. It was only a little raw, and the spray had done a good job of preventing any sort of infection, but she didn't want it to become irritated under the helmet. The bandage and her own bacta spray and herbal compositions would help prevent that, and so the helmet was best left off for now.

She knew she was tempting fate and possibly his wrath, by leaving the helmet off, but recovering from injuries seemed, in her mind, to trump his creed and the helmet would not help in his healing. If he didn't like that… well, she would cross that bridge when she got to it.

Omera sat down in her rocking chair to begin repairing a hole in one of Winta's shirts. Tradition was a fine thing, she knew, and old customs were often quite helpful and served as a means of binding communities and families together, but sometimes they had to be put aside for practicality and perhaps even for sheer survival. She respected his devotion to the vows he had made, but his life was more important than any oath.

Besides, you can't keep oaths when you're dead.

He stirred a bit, then mumbled something that sounded a little like 'jet pack' and tried to move onto his side, so Omera was satisfied that he was sleeping comfortably. She expertly shifted him around and removed the stained sheets, then covered him up with a warm blanket. She started a good blaze in the fireplace, set a pitcher of water and a glass by his bed, and went out to retrieve the child.

Winta and her friends were playing with him, and the child looked utterly happy with them, but when he saw her he toddled over and looked up at her and then at her door. "Come along now, sweetie. We'll put your crib by the bed. How about that?"

The child cooed and made a strange kind of chirping sound, and she carried him inside after shooing the children back home and telling Winta to go stay with her cousins for the night. She put the child on the bed beside the Mandalorian and retrieved the crib, settled a thick blanket in it and put him on the bed for a moment, to reassure him that Mando was alive and just a bit unwell. The child cooed and waved his hands, looking pleased, and touched Mando's face, gently patting him and burbling softly.

"Your Papa is going to be just fine," Omera told him, moving him to the crib. "He just got a really bad knock in his stubborn head, didn't he?"

"Papa." the child said, and she smiled.

"That's right. He's your Papa. Are you hungry?"

The child cooed and made that little chirping sound again, so she suspected that was a 'yes'. She moved him to the crib, gave him a little ball to play with, and went to the kitchen and found some sweet fruit and some leftover grinjer meat, and returned to find him up on the bed again, beside his father.

"How do you do that?" she asked, gently putting him back in the crib. "You love your Papa, hm? He's a good Papa?"

The child smiled up at her, showing tiny teeth, and she gently stroked his head, which made him wiggle and squeal happily. Omera fed him the fruit and meat, and after his meal he lay down without any urging at all and went right to sleep.

* * *

It was early morning, a rumbling in the northern sky promising rain and cold weather. Omera was resting by the fire, watching the child chew on what appeared to be a tiny steel animal skull, when Mando suddenly gasped and tried to sit up.

"The kid! Where's the kid?!" Then he grimaced with pain and fell back onto the pillow, his hand on his forehead. "Oh, God, I think my brain just exploded!"

"He's over here, and I think you're being a little dramatic," Omera said gently, rising to fill a glass with cold water. The child was standing up in the crib, watching them with great interest and reaching his hands out towards him. "Calm down. He's just fine." She gave Mando the glass, and she wasn't surprised when he drained it down in one gulp before looking around the room, a hunted expression on his face. He was clearly frantic, and he tried to get out of bed, regardless of his headache, but Omera pushed him firmly back into place. "Stop that. You're naked, you know, and he's fine. See?" She pointed to the little crib and the child squealed and gurgled happily.

"Stop yelling at me! How… how did I get… oh, my God, my head is killing me… and… I'm naked! How did I get naked?! What did you… somebody… where am I?" he demanded, wild-eyed and agitated.

"Good Lord, you do panic rather spectacularly, don't you? You're in my house. You have been rendered naked in the same way anybody ends up naked—you were undressed. It took four men to bring you here, and no, none of them saw your face. It was like trying to carry a Zabrak that had been on a spice bender—you growled and fought them every step of the way. _Quite_ embarrassing behavior from a grown man, however grave his injuries, I must say." Omera said with some asperity, moistening a washcloth in the basin and handing it to him. "You're also a mess, really, but I think you'll recover very well if you'll be _still_ and behave. How do you sleep in that thing, anyway?"

"I… I'm used to it," he answered wearily, settling back against the pillows again, but he was still tense. "My helmet… you… took it off…"

"Hush. It was off when I found you in that hulking monster of a ship of yours. And I wouldn't want to have to get used to to wearing that thing, and getting wound up about it now won't make your head hurt any less," she said, putting the still rather pinkish washcloths into a basket to carry out for washing later. Omera worried now that perhaps he had lost a bit too much blood. He was still incoherent, and quite weak. Good meat and rest would be the best medicine for him, she decided.

She couldn't help but think that it would be very… _primitive_, but entirely satisfying, to take advantage of his current state, but if their roles were reversed, that kind of thing would be _unforgiveable_, and besides, it would totally destroy his trust in her.

"That thing and all that armor can't be anything better than uncomfortable, however much it may shield you, and you need rest, not itchy clothes and armor." She shook her head, _tsking_ at him.

He was silent for a long time, and she knew he was thinking, or at least _trying_ to think, but Omera knew a concussion made stringing words together painful and wearying. When he started to get up again, she pushed him firmly back into place and making him gasp and growl at her again.

"Stop that. You need to rest. You've clearly suffered a very pretty nasty blow to your head, helmet or not, and I seriously doubt you can stand up for long without tipping over and throwing up all over my clean floor. Plus you've lost a good bit of blood, which is a going concern, but head wounds are like that, and can be very scary at best. Right now, it's water and hot tea, and then it'll be rest, good food and quiet for the next few days. So go back to sleep."

"I don't… "

"Shhh! Stop being stubborn—that doesn't work with me. You think you're hard-headed? Try dealing with Winta when she's on a tear, and not even she's been able to beat me. You won't either. So sleep. I'll take care of your boy. He's already eaten two frogs this morning and several dozen fish. I swear, he's gonna turn _blue_ soon."

"Yeah, sounds like him." The Mandolarian settled back on the mattress, and within moments his breathing slowed. He mumbled in his sleep, and Omera blushed when he said her name, though it sounded like he was arguing with her in his dreams. If his expression was any indication, however, that battle of wills was a losing one as well.


	7. Chapter 7

**EXPOSED**

Omera had never been the type of woman who made passes at men. It had always seemed unseemly and frankly kind of slutty, to her. In her marriage, she had learned—very quickly—how to be aggressive in bed, much to her husband's delight, but she had only expressed her sexuality within the bounds of that sacred union. Aside from some very old-fashioned views on the matter, she also had a daughter to raise, so she had to set a good example on morality. So it wasn't as though she could loosen the stays and hurl herself at a man she found attractive.

Not that she didn't want the Mandalorian any _less_. She hadn't felt this way since her marriage. She liked the way he looked at her, and she had caught him looking at her a _lot_, even when he was wearing his helmet, and now that he was recovering and more alert, she felt his gaze on her every time she went into the bedroom to check him and take him his meals. It made her heart flutter with excitement when he said her name in his sleep, and the aching she felt in her belly and her breasts was quite familiar, except that it was even stronger than what she had felt toward her husband.

Besides, she just _liked_ him. His quiet, shy manners, and his surprisingly soft voice and his obvious devotion to his child were all quite endearing—he was fiercely protective (maybe a little overly so, but that was workable) of those he loved, and she knew that under that armor was a soft heart. Even his determination to keep to his credo was admirable, however much it seemed to impede his own happiness. He was a man to be respected immensely.

She sat by the bed, watching him sleep, gently touching his cheek and caressing him when he started having nightmares again, and her touch seemed to soothe him. She wondered, as his breathing slowed, how long it had been since anyone had touched his face. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

It was very late, with the moons both shining brightly, and she studied him more closely, rather liking how the light seemed to bathe him in silver. He was lean and hard, obviously very fit from a lifetime of constant motion and frequent violence, but he was also rather _too_ thin, to her mind. His hair curled at the ends, which she found adorable, and his Roman nose gave his face character, and best of all, he didn't snore.

In cleaning him, she had taken her time as she had moved down the length of his body, and even though he didn't _need_ to be toweled off and cleaned down there, she had done it anyway, because… well, because she wanted to—she was only human. If he ever found out, of course, he would probably be appalled.

Or maybe… aroused?

She hoped for the latter, particularly if he acted on his arousal. He was so closed off, so carefully controlled—what would he be like if he were exposed to someone he trusted? Better yet, what would he be like if he ever did put his reserve and inhibitions aside?

She sat back, thinking it over. Even her husband, for all his genuine kindness and warm humor, had had trouble saying what he felt, but he had shown his feelings very well. If he was angry, he was _angry_ and would go out and chop wood until his anger ebbed away and he could come in the house again—even during a real fit of temper, he never had shouted at her, even once. If he was ever tense or upset… well, that had always led to sex, as a means of letting off steam, and afterward he could talk, stumbling through what he had to say. Following the applause, of course. She would listen and gently guide him toward a reasonable solution to whatever was troubling him. Omera could not remember a single quarrel with her husband, except for when he would insist she stop carrying around heavy baskets of krill, which would just make her roll her eyes, and that would only ever lead to a brief and fun wrestling match.

She had been married for only about six months, and she had learned a great deal about the care and feeding of men.

Men are _different_, she thought, laughing at herself a little. That hadn't come as a shock, necessarily—she had had her father and her brothers and uncles and cousins and other men around her all her life, but being intimate with one had been a completely different matter, and the differences between herself and her husband had been startling. Some of her more cynical friends seemed to view men as a race of inferior androids that only deserved to be destroyed, but she simply couldn't view a fellow human with such a cruel and heartless eye. _People are people wherever you go_, her father had told her, and she found that to be true, regardless of sex.

Things were basic, really—a man needed love and acceptance as much as any woman, though she knew a lot of men were rather unnerved by love and affection, but she also knew most men craved it—her husband had gotten rather spoiled to it! A man would definitely have a harder time expressing his feelings, because she knew that many men were raised to believe their emotions would be used against them. _My deeds speak the words of my heart_ was an old Sorganian proverb, and it was absolutely true. If he couldn't say what he was feeling, his actions spoke volumes, and often had a larger and more profound impact.

She looked at the man sleeping in her bed—a heady thought—and thought that he was a prime example of what most men are like: carefully controlled, guarded with their feelings but deeply emotional, and if given half a chance, single-mindedly devoted to family and friends and capable of being an exceptional husband and father. Now that she knew what he looked like, she suspected she wouldn't have trouble determining what he was thinking even when he was wearing the helmet. His behavior and body language already spoke the deeds of his heart, but his face was remarkably expressive, and she hoped to finally see him smile one day.

Omera sighed and put her head back, her eyes tired from hours of sewing. She hadn't even really realized it—sewing was as instinctive as breathing to her—but she had started making him a shirt, mentally measuring his proportions and creating a nice dark cotton shirt that would be far more comfortable than the rough wool shirt he wore under his beskar. She looked at the shirt, flapping it out and checking the stitching carefully before she was satisified. Finally, she carefully threaded some silver silk and stitched her own initials into the collar—OC, for Omera Cassaleria.

The child was sleeping in the crib, breathing evenly, and she smiled at him. In the past few days, she had gotten to know the boy a lot better, and his devotion to his Papa was as touching as Mando's devotion to him—he had refused to budge from Mando's side at night, and frequently he would climb out and toddle over to touch the man's arm and babble at him. He was a charming, playful, sweet-tempered little thing who relished being outside playing with his friends and procuring rocks and leaves and little gee-gaws and trinkets to add to his growing collection of toys. Omera had seen him become quite agitated if taken too far away from his Papa's side. Not even Winta and the other children could convince him to move out of view of Omera's house, and if they tried to carry him too far away he would start howling until they put him down.

The bond between the Mandalorian and the little green creature was incredibly strong, and it was clear that he was willing to lay down his own life for the boy. If that could be prevented, of course, while also allowing the child to grow up safe and happy, then all the better.

* * *

Din knew he had slept for at least three days straight, and when his mind cleared and all the gears were working again, Omera was there with a bowl of some kind of meat and vegetable soup and a loaf of fresh-baked bread. She scolded him for trying to get up, laid down the law again about staying off his feet for now, and left him alone to fume, ruminate and eat. It annoyed him somewhat that it _didn't_ annoy him that a slim, soft woman he outweighed by about a hundred pounds could cow him into obedience, but he was always too tired to try to work himself into a lather about it. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself. Being sleepy and discombobulated had its benefits: he was actually feeling well-rested.

He told himself that he wasn't happy about this situation—Mandalorians don't do 'coddling', after all, and wound care among his people was rudimentary at best, but apparently people of Omera's ilk were made of stern stuff, too, because he suspected she would rip him a new one if he didn't follow orders. He knew that Omera wasn't even vaguely intimidated by him, and she would belabor him with a cooking pot if he didn't behave.

He was also a little confused about why he wasn't going into a full-blown temper tantrum over her having removed his helmet, and that he still wasn't wearing it. Or that he was still _naked_. But trying to stir up anger just made him tired, and after a while he just gave up and went back to sleep—the bed was too comfortable for fits of fury anyway. He would growl and grumble at Omera later. Either that, or he would just growl and kiss her all over and let her do whatever type of nursing she liked, and if it ended with her in the bed with him, well, he would just have to endure it.

He woke later to the sound of water splashing and women chattering, and that made him sit up, alarmed. Had Omera allowed all the other females in the village in to look at him? He looked around the room, but his helmet was nowhere in sight, and he had no clothes to put on—she had him beat _again_! That meant heading outside to throw a fit to express his outrage was not in the cards. 'Crazy naked man yelling' would only be fodder for gossip for months on Sorgan. He sighed and settled back on the pillows, but his head wasn't pounding any more and he was hungry.

As if to make it clear that he was happy to be on Sorgan again, the kid squealed at him and jumped up and down in the crib, then cooed happily when Din couldn't keep from smiling at him—he couldn't deny being glad to see the little nuisance—in fact, it made something in his chest swell to see him looking so happy. He reached over and pulled the crib a little closer, and gently stroked the boy's head, which got him a smile and chittering in response. He didn't seem to be terribly concerned that he wasn't wearing his helmet, or even really all that confused to see his face. Din figured the kid was able to connect dots fairly well on his own. 'Big scary man wearing helmet' apparently equalled 'tired-looking man who looks he might tip over at any moment' pretty easily for him.

"Mando, I've prepared your meal. Your boy needs to be fed, too."

He stretched out on the bed and quickly pulled the blanket back up to his chest, and tried to look grouchy. The kid wasn't buying it—he began laughing and rattling the crib, and Din couldn't hold his frown any longer. He grinned at the kid, who giggled, ears waggling back and forth in excitement.

So that's what happiness looks like, he thought, and resigned himself to being coddled and berated for the next few days.

"Come in," he called.

She came in bearing a cup of hot tea, which she set on the table by the bed, and if she thought he looked threatening, she didn't seem to buy his act at all. "I've also drawn a nice hot bath for you, and you can eat afterward, and then it's back to bed for more rest. No arguing. Whatever you might think, right now you're about as intimidating as a bag full of gartos." She sounded amused as she talked. "No armor, no helmet… no clothes, and I suspect I could knock you over with a feather. Oh, and here."

He was starting to rebut her statement with some salty language but yelped when his helmet suddenly landed in his lap.

"Thanks a lot!" he said, in a high falsetto, and that made her snicker.

"And I brought your armor, too—it was all terribly dirty and the helmet had blood inside it, so I gave it all a good cleaning and polish."

She didn't stay long. After clearing away dishes and gently tickling the boy, who squealed with laughter, she left him alone again. Once he was sure she was gone, he slowly got out of bed, wrapping the blanket around himself, and stood over the crib, inspecting his kid more closely. The boy looked up at him, eyes wide and curious. "You're okay, little womp rat?" he asked.

The child smiled up at him, showing his tiny teeth, and Din sighed with relief. Stupid, he thought. As if Omera wouldn't take excellent care of him. He had probably even put on a non-amphibian based pound or two by now.

He didn't feel terribly dizzy, so he went into the little bathroom and lowered himself into the steaming hot water, yelping a couple of times before settling down to relax a bit and even doze off for a few moments.

He heard the bedroom door open and he was still, and he heard her moving around the room. "Don't let your supper get cold," she called, and the bedroom door closed again.

He washed up with unscented soap, taking his time—just to be annoying—and climbed out, feeling a lot better. After drying off, he found a pair of trousers and a shirt she had left next to the tub and pulled them on. They were a bit oversized on him, but he figured they had been her husband's, and it did not escape him that he was wearing the clothes of a man who had slept with Omera and had probably gleefully schtupped her senseless on a regular basis.

Lucky bastard.

He stepped out of the bathroom and was startled to see the bed had been stripped and new sheets and blankets had been put on it—how did anybody move that fast?!

Yet again, he was amazed by a woman. Most probably couldn't outdo him in combat, but they certainly could outdo him in making a home calm and comfortable, and that ability was a hell of a lot more useful than knowing how to pull a man's arms off. He had known several female warriors among the Mandalorians, but even they were good at being able to soothe away pain and worry and how to make her home a place of rest. Men didn't know diddly about that kind of thing—he remembered his adoptive father having not a single clue about where linens were stored or how to mend a shirt or prepare a meal. His mother had just snickered at him and affectionately referred to him as her _mirdala_ _al'verde._

It was then that he realized he was famished. Looking around, he saw the bowl of steaming-hot stew and a loaf of bread on the table by the fireplace. He took a cautious bite of the stew, and he found it still hot and quite delicious. He preceded to devour everything hungrily, sharing pieces of bread and meat with the kid, who didn't seem to like bread much, but he was clearly happy to just sit in his crib, chewing resolutely on the Mythosaur skull when he finished his meal.

After eating, he sat on the bed for some time, adjusting to a world that seemed somehow _closer_ and disconcertingly intrusive without his armor, and picked up his helmet. He checked inside and noted that Omera had indeed given it a proper cleaning and a thorough polish, so that it was gleaming again. He inspected his armor and found that she done an excellent job with it as well.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache bearing down on him. IG-11 had been telling the truth when he'd said the bacta spray would heal his head wound within hours, but the effects of the concussion had definitely lasted longer—he knew they could cause trouble for days, in fact. He felt better now, but couldn't deny that he still had a way to go before he was full mobile again. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and entered into a staring contest with the kid, and was pleased to finally win. The kid reached for him and Din allowed him to pat his cheeks, burbling and saying 'Papa' several times.

He pretended that his eyes didn't mist over. He faked a cough and a sniff instead.

"It's _buir_," he told the child, who cooed, looking up at him, eyes bright and wondering. "Try and say it… _boo-eer_."

"Boo!" the kid burbled back, looking quite pleased with himself.

"That's what you say when you're sneaking up behind somebody to scare them out of their boots. It's _boo-eer_."

"Beer!"

"I might need one soon, actually," Din said, sighing. "We'll try again later. Gotta lay down."

He closed his eyes, the sunlight coming through the window making him sleepy, and pondered his situation. Omera had removed his helmet. And his clothes. He had never been naked in front of anyone before, and that made him feel a bit panicky. What really scared him, though, was that he didn't feel as upset as he thought he would. Or should. No living thing had seen his face since he had vowed the Creed, and yet Omera had seen his face and… well, the rest of him. Scars and scrapes and probably that little star-shaped birthmark on his hip and…

The kid rattled the crib.

"What?"

The kid squealed and held up his arms, asking to be picked up.

Din sighed and picked the boy up, then settled him down beside him on the bed. "A lot different from beskar, huh?" he asked. "And I know the helmet's a big improvement on my face, right?" The boy giggled and reached to touch his face, cooing softly, and said "_buir"_ perfectly, as if he had been thinking about it.

Omera called, "Knock knock," and he reached for the helmet, but paused, feeling strange without the armor, but at least he was decently covered, and she had seen him. _All of him_. No going back from there, he knew. He would think about the consequences later, when he had complete control of his faculties again.

He sighed and left the helmet sitting on the bed. Oh well, she's probably still feeling ill, he thought gloomily, so looking at me again probably won't make any difference. Besides, she's too honest and kind to bring in a herd of people to look at me, and she's too polite to say I need put the damned helmet back on already.

"Come in."

She was carrying a basket of what looked like little toys and trinkets. "You've eaten?" She set the basket on the floor, and the kid scrabbled out of bed and made a beeline for it, ears up and squealing excitedly. The kid sat down and reached inside, pulling out each toy, one by one, examining them carefully and cooing happily. Soon he was whapping a wooden rattle on the floor, and Omera gently chided him. "Less noise, please, sweetheart. Your Papa has a headache, remember?" she said. The boy giggled and put the rattle aside and went for a soft, straw-filled little doll and started whapping it on the floor instead.

"Yes. Thank you. It was really good. I mean, the food was good. The bath was… er… much-needed."

"Indeed. You weren't exactly smelling great, though that was hardly your fault, and I only rinsed you off a bit. I made sure to put out some unscented soap—I rather doubt a Mandalorian should smell like flowers." Omera smiled and Din regretted not putting the helmet on, because he was admiring her figure again.

Unlike many of his fellow Mandalorians, he had always preferred feminine, softly curved women, not big, hard bruisers like the Armorer and Cara Dune. He had noted Cara's dark good looks, and she was his match in brute strength and skill, and he admired her for that, but she wasn't his type at all. Omera, however, met his personal requirements _far_ too well.

He was _leering_ at her, and he finally dragged his gaze away to look at the kid, who was sitting on the floor, babbling at the doll. If she knew what he had been thinking she would probably demand he leave Sorgan immediately.

"You're looking better. You were pretty banged up when you got here." She smiled at the child and picked him up, cuddling him warmly. "And you are just as naughty as ever, but you were so smart to come and get me, weren't you? It's hard to make him stay in one place, that's for sure, but I couldn't make him be quiet if we took him too far from your side—he came and got me himself when you landed. Anyway, he's been sleeping in here."

The kid screeched happily, clearly enjoying praise for a job well done.

"Keeping him in line is like herding lothcats."

Omera laughed out loud, and he wanted to just… good God, what did he want to do? He knew about those things in theory, but not in practice. His clan didn't allow for sex before marriage, but his adoptive parents had told him about the _act_ in frank terms. He knew the mechanics of it fairly well, and he had certainly heard vulgar but intriguing talk amongst fellow bounty hunters (wearing a helmet was definitely useful then, because those stories always made him blush). Only a few Mandalorians that he knew had been married, and even fewer had children of their own.

The memory of Xi'an's determined efforts to get him to sleep with her came to him, and how he had only felt revulsion at the idea. She was... dirty and vulgar, aside from just being a raving homicidal psycho, and he couldn't stand women like that.

Omera was as far from that kind of woman as possible-she was sexy without being outrageous, and she had class, common sense and intelligence.

_Warriors do not breed. _He remembered one of the old clan members saying that, but… he was head of his own clan now, wasn't he? A clan of two? Did it have to _stop_ at two? Clans have a head and a matriarch and offspring and hangers-on and offshoots and dependents and…

He could barely believe he was telling himself that, but it all come galloping up on him without warning, and it terrified him. He rubbed his face, realizing he needed to shave.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"You took off my helmet," he said, at a total loss.

Omera drew in her breath very slowly, so he stayed still, waiting, and she showed her mettle by facing him straight on.

"It was necessary. I meant no offense. You were injured and… "

"It's all right." Was he actually saying that? That it was okay? _ What the hell is wrong with you?! _He forced himself to look at the pitcher by the bed, trying to draw up anger the way the sun drew water, but it just wouldn't come. He would have killed _anyone_ else for removing his helmet, except the kid. But he couldn't get angry at Omera for doing what was _right_. Hell, he knew he couldn't get angry at her even if she spat in his face. Not that he could imagine her doing such a thing.

"… I had to check your wounds and see if there was any other wounds, and… um… there were just lots of scars and a few fresh scrapes… and you were in pretty bad shape. The blood loss was rather severe."

He swallowed, still refusing to let himself look at her. Was it really that easy to forego the Way? Fall helplessly in love with a woman and be able to remove the damned helmet and let her see what she was getting herself into? That is, if she wanted to be in his world at all, because it wasn't exactly a happy place.

_Helplessly in love?!_

Din batted the thought away. He was being maudlin, and his brain had been scrambled on Nevarro. Maybe IG-11 hadn't really been joking about damage to his central processing unit after all.

Wincing, he scratched the back of his neck. He knew he wasn't being maudlin. Truth was simply truth, even if it scared him. "It's okay, and yeah, I've had those moments come up, too—of doing what's necessary, that is," he said, casting about for words that made sense at all. "You'll probably be glad when I put it back on, anyway." But would he put it back on again in her presence? He looked around the room—her bedroom—and swallowed.

He had never even had a _home_ since the day his parents had been murdered. This place could be his home, but it was frightening for him to step out of the world he _knew_. It would be just as terrifying as it had been when the Mandalorians had taken him to their covert. They had been kind, in their way, but it dawned on him that while that way of life had worked for him, was it fair to put the kid through it too? Hard training and sleeping on cold floors and eating uninspiring food and never getting to play and run around like a kid? He recalled some of the children at the covert on Nevarro being allowed to skitter about—in fact, it was rather nice to watch a little group of them gather in a huddle, call a play and head off in different directions to wreak a bit of merry havoc among their austere minders (who never got upset with them for acting like little zanies)—and he knew that was because the Armorer insisted on it.

He had been given a choice as a boy. The kid likely wouldn't be 'of age' for another two hundred years or so, and he deserved some options, didn't he? Would a life of peace be that bad? He was honest enough with himself to know that had the Purge not happened and his parents not been killed, he would have enjoyed a happy childhood and probably would never have even thought of becoming a warrior, much less a Mandalorian.

The other options for the kid's future was finding other Jedi or at least the kid's own species. He didn't even know where to start. What if finding them brought more danger to the kid? He knew Moff Gideon had nothing but evil intentions for the boy, but was it possible the Jedi wouldn't even be a better choice?

So why not just stay here? Why not give the kid this place as a home and use it as a sort of base of operations? Greef Karga wanted him back as a bounty hunter, and he supposed that would be a means of income, but it was such a dangerous job… could he risk that?

"I wouldn't say that," she said, interrupting his whirling thoughts. She began gathering up his clothes and carefully stacked his armor on the chair by the bed. "I remember my husband telling me about how all the buckles and snaps and buttons in his battle armor made bladder control _imperative_."

"I can't argue that point."

Omera smiled, and he realized he wearing nothing but trousers, a shirt and an anxious expression. "Of course, it was always fun to help him get out of his armor. It always resulted in him chasing me around." She glanced out the window. "That's how we got Winta."

He stared at her, bewildered, and her cheeks pinked prettily and she shrugged.

He struggled to find something to say, and finally lit on a safer subject. "Have you known any other warriors?"

"A few. I remember one—a worn out Rebel foot soldier—I think he served on Endor...?" Off his nod, she continued. "He retired here. Somewhere on the other side of this planet, that is. He said he no longer wished to study war. He lived alone. Not really a hermit, and he was actually a very gentle soul, and my father suspected the poor man had lost everything he held dear because of war, and had had enough of the whole business and was just done with people in general."

"Yeah. I suspect a lot of people are like that these days."

"Peace isn't just the absence of war, though, is it? It's achieved through strength and the other man being afraid to attack you, and really, strength has different forms. It can be weapons and fighting skills, but also it's communities and families willing to fight to protect themselves and each other." Omera picked up the basket of clothes and smiled at him before leaving the room, closing the door.

Immediately the boy headed for the door, his new toys forgotten and eager to go play with his friends. After putting his helmet back on, Din opened the door cautiously, as if expecting something awful to be out there. Like Moff Gideon or a battalion of stormtroopers or the remains of dozens of half-devoured frogs.

What if Gideon and his bloodthirsty gang of Imps showed up here? The very thought of that possibility made Din's heart start pounding. If anything happened to Omera, or her daughter or the people in the village, it would be his fault—he would have brought death to this place. If any of them were ever hurt, he knew he would go on a full-blown rampage, that was for sure. If anyone ever hurt Omera or the kid, he would not hesitate to kill anyone who harmed them. Nobody was going to even _try_ to hurt his family—that was the whole point of _being _a Mandalorian.

He closed the door, which displeased the kid a lot, and looked around the room, realizing then that he was in Omera's own bedroom. No wonder the bed was comfortable, with warm sheets and a thick blanket (damn, but the nights on this planet were cold!). A rocking chair sat in one corner, and he could almost see her sitting there sewing or repairing a net—she always seemed busy, even when sitting still. Of course, his mind wandered back to the bed, and he imagined her lying there, looking up at him while he pulled on his trousers…

The kid whimpered, wanting to be released back into the wild. Din sighed and sat down on the bed again, pulling on his boots, then rose and opened the door again, letting the kid out, and the boy tripped on his little cloak, but was back on his feet in a flash and making a beeline to the front door.

_You are as father to him_, he remembered the Armorer saying. A father has to let his kids fall down sometimes or they'll never learn how stand up. Instead, they would grow up to be whiny, self-centered brats, unprepared for the world and shrieking whenever they came up against any kind of opposition to their fragile little egos. He had to let the kid find his own footing, but it still pained him to see the boy fall down. His first instinct was always to be overprotective, and he knew he was going to have to find a way to balance it all out and let the kid find his own Way. Even if the Way wasn't to be among the Mandalorians.

Din put on his helmet and followed him out into a comfortable room with a fireplace and several thick, comfortable-looking cushions on the floor. The next room was a warm and inviting kitchen, with stone-flagged flooring and an exposed timber ceiling, with pots and pans hanging from a beam above a large woodblock island, and a fireplace connecting the kitchen to the little sitting room. Up above the kitchen was a loft, accessible by a ladder, and he figured that was Winta's bedroom. Beyond the kitchen was another bathroom, and a door that opened into what looked like a sunny room for raising flowers and herbs.

This house was a _home_. A real, honest-to-God home, where peace reigned and its residents were warmed by more than just the fire. He had never been mistreated by the Mandalorians in any way, but he didn't recall warmth among them. Genuine care and protective and hell, even a variation on love and even compassion, but not _warmth_. Mandalorians were certainly not in for cuddling or soft beds and cushions and cheerful fireplaces and toys for the kids.

He glanced back at the bedroom and drew in his breath—where had Omera slept the past few days? It appalled him, then, to realize he had put her out of her own lodgings, and he knew he would have to make amends for that.

The good manners that the Mandalorians had drilled into him since the day he had arrived in the covert would never leave him. Not that his parents hadn't taught him good manners, but that had been a different set of manners for a different kind of life. In fact, he was glad for what his surrogate family had taught him—an attitude of gratefulness kept a man humble. _Yes, no, please, thank you, sir, ma'am_: the Mandalorians had been sticklers for that kind of thing. His birth parents had drilled him on that sort of thing, too, but it had been more of a matter of diplomacy than anything else.

The kid stood at the front door, looking at him expectantly, and Din opened it, letting in blinding sunlight and the sound of children laughing. He stood for a moment, uncertain and dazed by the brightness, and let the kid toddle over to the little mob of village children, who greeted him enthusiastically. Good, Din thought. He needs friends. He needs to socialize. If I had done that as a child, I might not be so…

So _lonely_.

Omera came around the corner then and saw him, and she looked amused as she approached him. "Already wanting outside to play?"

"More like 'sit in the sun for a while'," he said absently, still watching the kid, worrying he might get trampled. But the village children were all careful of his size and when they decided to move, in one noisy group to another part of the paddy, Winta picked him up and carried him with great care.

"Sounds like a good idea. My grandmother always said fresh air and sunshine are good for much of what ails you. Of course, she also said that when the birds fly in a zig-zag pattern, rain is coming, so we learned when to ignore her." She went back around the corner and returned with a chair, which she set down next to the door. "Go on, sit. You can keep an eye on the children while I hang out the washing, but I want to do a bit of sewing first, and I've already got a nice big grinjer ready for roasting on the fire, and we'll have broth for the little one. I think I got most of the blood out of the clothes under your armor, at least to the point where you can't see it."

"Thank you."

She nodded and rummaged through the basket of laundry and extracted his cape. "Really, you need a new, proper cape. This thing has holes in it."

"My birth-mother made it for me."

Omera stopped and studied him. "Oh. Perhaps I could sew the holes then?"

"Um… sure."

She could sense he didn't like changes to what was his last real connection to the woman who had borne him, and she sought to put him at ease. "I'll just patch the holes. I won't change anything else."

"It's okay. I'm sorry… I just… I've had it all my life. From birth, really. It used to be a kind of blood red color, but it's faded over the years and now it's more brown than anything else…"

"Blood red?" she asked, looking down at the worn fabric and then at him, brow furrowed. "Royal red, you mean?"

Din snorted. "Royal? Hardly. Just… "

"Blood red is a color for royalty and higher nobility—members of a ruling or high-ranking house, at least," she said. She examined the fabric more closely, holding it up to the sun and finally seeing a bit of red remaining along the hemlines.

He snorted derisively. "My parents weren't anything like that. They were… just people. I was wearing red on the day my village was attacked… and they were, too, so I figure the attack must have happened on Life Day, but then I don't remember anyone else wearing red, so… but they weren't royalty. I'm sure of that. It was just washed too often while I was growing up…" He paused, trying to remember how it had gone from red to brown. The women in his clan had been sticklers for cleanliness, that was for sure, and didn't like bright colors at all. Bright colors made wearers stand out and become targets.

Omera suspected he was quite wrong. Scarlet red was for Life Day. _Blood_ red was forbidden for anyone not belonging to a noble house.

"Nobles are people, too. Just better fed. I've even met one or two, and they could be quite nice if you gave them a chance and didn't just assume they were snobs." Omera smiled at him. "Anyway, I'll see it's washed properly and I'll patch the holes with similar fabric. Will that be all right?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Would you like me to dye it red?"

"Uh… no. I don't think so. That's impractical now."

Omera nodded and put the cape back into her basket. "Do you remember where you were born?"

Din was at a loss. There were so many missing pieces of his early childhood that he wasn't sure what went where any more. "I don't recall. It was desert sort of place… I think… there were green places, I mean, and… we had… a fountain in a courtyard in the middle of the house…?" He was dismayed, then, to realize that he really couldn't remember much about his life before his parents' death. He remembered his father's cheerful personality, and his mother's warm, gentle ways and that she always smelled like flowers, and that her laughter could be heard from any part of the house and even a few blocks away. Other than that, so many pieces were missing from before the droids came blasting into the village and killed _everyone_.

IG-11 had changed his general view of droids somewhat, but the sight of one still made his fingers twitch and his heart start pounding with rage… and fear.

"Did you live in a small house or a large house?"

"It was large, I think."

Omera didn't feel it to be her place to press him on the matter. Besides, she could tell it was upsetting him a little. Her mother's words blared in her head: mind your own business and keep your hands to yourself. She glanced at him, thinking—not for the first time—that she wouldn't mind terribly if he didn't keep his own hands to himself.

"Did you have siblings?"

"No." He vaguely recalled a few other children, but he knew they weren't his siblings. Some of them even wore the same blood red cloaks. He suspected they were all dead, and that made something in his chest hurt. He looked across the paddys and observed the kid following yet another frog, squealing at it as it hopped out of reach and into the water.

She smiled. "I have two brothers and a sister, and dozens of cousins. My father always called a group of little boys a 'debris', and a group of little girls was a 'giggle'," she said with a fond laugh. "Didn't you have a bunch of friends to run around with?"

He shook his head, and she felt terribly sad for him. Mandalorians were known for their austerity, but surely they allowed the stays to slip a little_ sometimes_.

"We were all free to run about and play when our chores and lessons were done. On Sargon, it's hard to have an unhappy childhood. We work, we play, we marry and have children and grow old and are buried in the fields beyond the forest. We don't tend to overcomplicate things." At his silence, she smiled ruefully. "I suppose you must think we're quite backward."

"Hardly. The rest of the world is backward, Omera."

She smiled softly, loving the way he said her name, and began sewing a hole in one of Winta's shirts. He was silent again, and Omera chanced a good look at him. His muscles had relaxed, and she realized he was asleep. Her eyebrows went up, wondering, and was about to get up when he gasped and sat up straight.

"I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. That was very rude."

"Hardly. You're tired, and my prattle can be very wearying."

"No! Not at all. I don't mind. I like… I mean, I… it's good to listen to somebody talk. The kid babbles and plays with switches in the cockpit—before he came along, I didn't even talk to _myself_. Not that I mind him getting into everything, really, except for the time he got hold of the controls, but it's nice to… to listen… to… you." His embarrassment was palpable, and she wasn't about to make it worse.

"I understand. I love Winta's chatter, but I like talking to adults." She looked down at her sewing. "Oh… and you and the boy can eat together in the house this evening. I have to attend a village council meeting."

"What's discussed at that type of thing?"

"Krill," she said with a laugh. "Frankly, krill has little scope for the imagination, but we have to determine which paddys are producing the most per season and go from there—we don't do collective farming—we'd all starve to death if we went that way. Depending on the year's tally, we set aside portions for leaner years—that kind of thing. But also discuss the drainage works we're doing next summer, so we can do a bit of planting, too. And we're discussing starting up a village militia."

"You'll need some weapons then."

"Well, we do have slingshots and sharp sticks."

He snickered and she laughed.

Dear God, he loved listening to her laugh. He sat up straight then, aware of how he was responding to her and not having a clue what to do about it. Anyone else would grab her and drag her inside and just… what? He couldn't keep his hands from clenching in frustration—he had zero experience with seduction and romance or just scratching the proverbial _itch_. And once _scratch_ would never be enough.

She was speaking again, and he had to drag his brain out of its haze of bewilderment and desire and pay attention.

"I'll be sure to have your supper ready before I go."

"Thank you. You're very considerate." He was silent for a moment, and she patched another hole in his cape. "I… I was wondering if you could give me some pointers, actually."

"Pointers? On what?"

"Parenthood. I have to admit, I don't have a clue, and he's… my kid, for all intents and purposes."

"Oh. I see. Well… " Omera sat back in her chair, thinking, while she searched in her sewing basket for a larger needle. She watched the children playing 'hide and seek' with the child, who was being assisted in his search by Winta. "So far as I can tell, you're doing a good job with him." She smiled at him. "Well, I can honestly say there are only a few very hard and fast rules on childrearing. One is that no two children are alike, so never expect them to react the same way to anything. With Winta, I just have to give her a _look_ and she knows to stop doing something I don't want her doing, though we've had our battles, but another child might require a firm spanking. As she's gotten older I don't need to resort to corporal punishment much at all. You can be sure that if I had another child, he or she wouldn't be like Winta at all, and your other children won't be like your boy."

"I sort of doubt I'll end up with another kid," he said.

"You don't know that. Isn't life what happens to you when you've made other plans? I can see you with a whole herd of wild children some day."

"An insomniac with a pounding headache, too," he said, sounding a little amused.

"Possibly. Another important thing is that you must be firm about important things, but not so rigid as to seem unreasonable and unsympathetic—children should be allowed to be _children_, so running about and playing is perfectly fine, but I always prefer that be done outdoors, and only after they'd done their chores and finished with the day's lessons. When he's little, bedtime is strict—if not, you'll never get any rest yourself! At his age, a nap in the afternoon, after second meal, is a good idea. Also, do your best to not lose your temper with him—easier said than done, I know, because any child can be positively _infuriating_, but it's best to try." She smiled at him. "And don't try to overexplain things. Let your yes be yes and your no be no, and be consistent."

"I should write this down," he said, and she gave him a look that made him grin and wish he wasn't wearing the damned helmet. She probably thought he _never_ smiled.

She laughed and continued sewing as she spoke. "My mother would warn me: if I did something she didn't like, she would tell me what would happen to me if I did it again. If I did it again, what she said would happen would _happen_. Immediately, without rancor. Just swift, painful justice—five or six swats on the butt did not damage me whatsover. Still, when the punishment is over, it's _over_, and you should never bring up a past mistake to use a weapon. My father was of the opinion that if you don't love your children enough to discipline them, you can be sure someone who doesn't love them will discipline them for you. But you should always remember to be fair."

He nodded. The Mandalorians had been firm disciplinarians, too, but they had also been _fair_.

"Really, though, the two things that got me in trouble was willful disobedience and backtalk. Those never resulted in punishment following a warning—if I backtalked or just willfully disobeyed, the punishment was _immediate_ and unpleasant. _Parents_ should be in charge, not children, and the child should know Mama and Papa are not liars, and are in control: parents should run a sort of benign dictatorship, and be united—never let the child play his parents against each other. Put a child in charge, you've got a tyrant and every disagreement will be a bloody battle. Don't risk it. Take charge, be calm, mete out _fair_ punishment to fit the crime, be merciful, and don't watch too closely, because if you do, he'll scare you. And remember to play with him, and laugh with him and be silly with him, and let him be silly and have _fun_, because once childhood is over, being silly just gets you labelled as the village nutter. Not that that's a bad thing, really. I have to admit—here on Sorgan, we're kind of proud of our crazy people. We bring out and show them off." She cut a piece of thread with her teeth and expertly rethreaded her needle.

The helmet covered his amusement.

"Oh, and never be afraid to apologize if you've done something wrong. That shocks them into total silence, believe me!" She laughed. "I also find that if Winta is misbehaving, when I lean in and whisper what I'm going to do to her if she doesn't cut it out, it gets her attention and she knows I mean business." Omera thought for a moment. "Oh, and in public places, never let him on the floor. He'll be gone in a flash. He can sit beside you and learn to be relatively quiet, but remember to be reasonable—little boys can't be _still_, but they can behave; I know it's awfully old-fashioned of me to say it, but girls can sit and be quiet a good bit better most of the time." She shook her head. "Boys and girls are different, that's for sure, and I'm glad of it—build on that difference and encourage it, and let him be comfortable in his own skin. Anyway, if he drops something while in a public place, that's just tough. _Don't _retrieve what he's dropped, either, or he'll just throw it down again and make you get it, as a means of entertainment: I made that mistake with Winta and my knees _still_ hurt from crawling around to retrieve her toys. Really, what children need is to know there's boundaries and that you'll protect them from anything that comes in from outside the boundaries. They like to be secure in their little worlds, but they will _test you_ to make sure those boundaries are still there… so be ready! I was told to follow my own instincts, of course and to listen to advice from experienced mothers. So far, I think I've been successful… I hope."

He took in her advice and watched Winta carry his kid across a bridge. "You have been. He _already_ scares me."

"Oh?"

"He can move things with his mind. He… he saved me from a mudhorn. Picked it up off the ground by… I don't know… holding his hand up." He raised his own hand, curving his index and middle finger and moving his thumb inwards into a pincer shape. "And he headed a man's wounds and poisoning by touching him, and he threw fire back on a stormtrooper on Nevarro."

Omera stared at him, eyes wide—what on earth had this father-son duo gone through? "He has the Force?"

"The what?"

"The Force. Haven't you heard of that?"

"Nary a clue," but he leaned forward and she could feel his eyes on her, which made her shiver a little. "What is it?"

"I don't know much about it, either, but I've heard of it. The Jedi were masters of it, or so I'm told."

"Wait… are they a race or… ?"

"Not a race. Anyone can be a Jedi—just like anyone can be a Mandalorian, under certain circumstances, right? I think anyone can have the Force—be born with it, I guess, which would lead to them being a Jedi—I suppose you could say they're souped-up knights." She frowned, trying to recall all her husband had said about the Jedi. "But I'm not sure if just anyone with the Force can _be_ a Jedi. Maybe there's different kinds. I admit I don't know much about it—my husband told me a little about it, but the Empire seems to have killed or scattered so many people, and last I heard, there were very, very few Jedi left, if any at all." She hazarded a look at him and saw he was stiff and was practically _oozing_ worry. "I do know the Force is not something that can bought or sold." She accidentally poked her finger with her needle and yelped. "If the child has the Force, he's something to be reckoned with if he can already pick up a mudhorn with his mind and throw back fire and heal people." She looked at the signet on his pauldron. "So that's where that came from?"

He nodded and looked across the way at the kid, who was chasing another frog now, while being watched over by the ever-attentive Winta. "Do you have an idea what species he is?"

"Nary a clue. Have you named him?"

"I… um… no. I haven't."

"You should name him. He needs a name, silly! What is your name?"

"Din Djarin."

Omera was silent for several seconds. _Djarin_. She had heard that name. He was from Kartli'i, or was of Kartli'ian lineage. Djarin was an _extinct_ Kartli'ian noble house, if she recalled correctly, that had been known to be charitable and good-natured. If he was a member of that house, he was likely its last male representative, and the poor man couldn't even remember his family! She had heard of Kartli'i's decimation during the Great Purge, but that lately they had started to rebuild under the protection of the New Republic. The planet was famous for its crystal-clear lakes and beautiful green fields and forests, plus arid deserts and snowy mountains. It also had a _glorious_ ocean teeming with fish. She had a friend who had visited the planet some years ago, and Omera made a note to ask her about it.

She briefly considered telling him about it, but something made her decide to hold her tongue for now. He was intelligent enough to figure it out on his own, if he wanted to.

Maybe he had blocked it out? Omera sensed that the deaths of his parents, followed by being taken in by the austere Mandalorians—a fierce tribe, she knew—had to have been traumatic, and children were fortunate to have an internal cushion that helped them cope with such earth-shattering loss. She knew he wanted no pity now, and would angrily rebuff it, but… had any of the Mandalorians just cuddled him and let him cry and mourn for his parents and the world he had lost?

"Well, Din Djarin, he'll also be a Djarin, but a name of his own will be required," she finally said. "Do you remember your father's name?"

"Kelso. His name was Kelso."

That sounded vaguely familiar, too, but she was not going to press him on the matter. "His name was Kelso? That's a good name. And your mother?"

"Kerala."

Omera smiled. "What a _beautiful_ name! When you have a daughter, you can name her for your mother—that's how the Mandalorian's remember those who have passed, right? To name a child in their honor?"

He nodded, but he was looking straight ahead, and she knew this conversation was paining him. She wanted to caress his cheek and tell him that everything was going to be okay. She gave him a reassuring smile.

"And Kelso is a _tough_ man's name. We have a similar name on Sargon, and it basically means 'swift'—Keel'so."

She had a sudden, painful image of him as a child, terrified and suddenly alone, an orphan. She looked at the child and understood now why he was so devoted to him. They were both orphans. Kindred spirits.

"I think I'll consider myself lucky if I can just get this kid to his own people. To… whatever species he is, or to other Jedi. I was told they're sorcerers."

"That's not exactly the right term for the Jedi," she said. "They don't practice magic. It's something else. I've only ever heard stories. Right now, you need to pick a name for your son, Din Djarin."

"I don't know. You pick something."

She thought a moment. "Haran—how does that sound?"

"Eh… "

"Okay… " she laughed. "That's out!"

"What was your father's name?"

"Stellan."

She waited, knowing he was trying to be tactful, and when he finally exhaled, at a loss, she laughed.

"I know. It's not a good name for him. A name has to fit its bearer." Omera lifted her hand, gesturing for Winta to come to her, and she gestured at the child as well. The girl picked up the child and carried him over. The boy reached for Din, cooing happily as the Mandalorian settled him on his lap and began bouncing him on his knee.

"What do you think we should name the boy, Winta?" Din asked, startling the girl a bit, who wasn't necessarily afraid of him, but she did find him intimidating.

Winta chewed on her lip, thinking, then brightened. "Teilo?"

Omera looked at Din, who sat up straight. She was not going to tell him that Teilo was the name of Winta's long-lost imaginary friend.

"Teilo Djarin. It does sound good, and he won't have trouble saying it. Good job, Winta. Thank you."

The girl preened happily, and little Teilo Djarin started sucking on the little steel skull again. Winta went inside to wash up for dinner, and Omera stood, gently picking up the child. "This little fellow needs to clean up for dinner, too, whether he has a name or not. I'll get him ready—oh, my, you do need a bath, you little stinker! I've got to get ready for the meeting, so you two can eat your dinner after I go. Winta, go on to the council house and wait for me."

The girl dashed away.

"Thank you, Omera. I appreciate it."

She smiled, briefly resting her hand on his shoulder, rubbing her thumb on the mudhorn signet. "You're quite welcome, Din. Always."

He settled back against the wall again, his breathing slowing, and she leaned closer, speaking softly and nudging him out of a hazy doze.

"What were you like when you were a child, Din?"

"I was shorter."

**CHAPTER NOTES**

_mirdala_ _al'verde = dear commander_

_buir = father_

I found the name "Teilo" in one of those "Star Wars" character name generators. If and when we find out what The Child's name is in the series, I'll pop in and correct it.

Kelso (1957-1983, sired by Your Host out of Maid of Flight, by Count Fleet) was a famous racehorse from the 1960's (look him up-he was a hard-knocking campaigner who gave no quarter). Kerala (1958-1984, sired by My Babu out of Blade of Time, by Sickle) was an influential broodmare-her son Damascus was an excellent racehorse and sire. I'm a racing fan and a pedigree geek, and some racehorse names can be really useful in naming fictional characters sometimes.

Oh, and Omera's last name is another racehorse: Cassaleria (1979-1993), a useful and consistent runner despite having lost one eye as a foal!

Alas, the only horse I ever found named 'Mandalorian' wasn't a successful runner.


	8. Chapter 8

**SUMMER INTERLUDE**

Spring was beginning to melt slowly into summer, and Din was surprised to find that even the weather on Sorgan was ideal. It rained regularly, but the bright sunshine following every rainstorm made things cheerful and bright again, and the forest and fields were _blindingly_ green. The kid was thriving, and Din had put on a couple of pounds due to Omera's stellar cooking, but he kept busy and thus avoided getting thick and pasty, a state no Mandalorian could countenance. The days were getting longer, and the nights were warm and still and he was even sleeping well—another anomaly.

He took the kid for walks almost every day, and little Teilo relished clambering around on rocks and tumbling down hills, getting dirty and being a total nuisance. An encounter with some kind of weird bird-like creature with teeth had sent the kid climbing up his armor and perching himself firmly on his shoulder, refusing to budge until the creature was out of sight (it ran away, chakking in terror, when Din growled at it). Other than that, life on Sorgan was pretty much an idyll. Good food, plenty to do, a beautiful, intelligent woman to talk to and at least look at, and a kid to keep him sharp made life pretty good. He taught Winta how to play _cu'bikad_, and didn't mind when she got good enough to bring him to a draw, though Omera was uneasy about her daughter learning how to throw blades.

It was the warmest day of the year so far, and Din had spent almost the entire day at the Razor Crest, doing repairs. He let the kid wander around and chase frogs and butterflies, but he was obeying orders to stay within sight. Din was struggling with a rusted-over bolt when he looked down and saw the kid waddling up to him, holding a squirming little forest creature with a pointed face, beady eyes, a prickly hide and mouth formed into a strangely beatific smile that had to be some kind of evolutionary charm failsafe against predators. That clearly did not work against little green kids, however. It looked like a walking pincushion, so perhaps it wasn't edible.

The boy squealed happily and hugged the creature, which kicked frantically but didn't seem to be in terrible danger.

"Oh no… " Din muttered. "Listen here, you cannot have a pet."

The kid burbled at him and held the wiggling creature up, eyes wide and appealing. He crouched down so that he was eye-to-eye with the boy.

"Teilo, that thing will chew out every electric wire on the ship. We can't take him."

Sure enough, the boy's eyes filled with tears and his little lower lip started trembling, and Din was at a loss as to what to do. He sighed and hung his head, grumbling to himself about woodland creatures and children seeming to have magnets that drew them to each other.

"Need some help?"

He looked up and saw Omera standing at the edge of the clearing, looking thoroughly amused.

Din stood up again, trying to be as dignified as possible when faced with a child and an irritatingly cute little forest critter, but all hope of maintaining his poise was dashed by him banging his helmeted head on the undercarriage of the ship. He saw stars for a few moments, but at least he didn't fall over.

He sighed, looking down at the kid, who was still clutching the prickly creature he had found and shook his head. "If you can figure out how to break his heart without irreparable psychological damage, go right ahead."

She knelt down in front of little Tielo Djarin, and glanced up at him. "You've noticed that Winta doesn't have a pet?"

He _hrmphed—_outdone again!—and went back to work on the stubborn bolt, cursing angrily in Mando'a when it still refused to budge.

"Apply some oil to it," she called gently, and she began talking quietly with the kid, her voice like aloe on a burn. He glanced back at her and saw that the prickly creature was making tracks for the woods and the boy was showing Omera his prized collection of weird-looking little shells the village children had dredged out of the paddys.

"Distraction, Din. You have to learn how to distract him," she said before returning to studying the kid's shells and exclaiming over them.

He grouched again and retrieved some oil from his tool box and sure enough, the stubborn bolt came out, albeit broken in two. He sighed and looked through the box again for a replacement. Omera settled down on the ground with the kid and played with him, and it did not escape him that this was like a normal domestic scene—the husband trying to fix something (with whatever applicable degree of mechanical competence he had) and the wife tending to the kid with considerable skill. Of course, Omera wasn't his wife, and she was good for far more than just tending to kids. For God's sake, she was an even better shot than him.

He finally found the right bolt and got to work getting it in and positioned right before applying the nut, absently growling under his breath.

"You're muttering to yourself."

"I am?" he asked, looking back at her.

"Yes. Something wrong?"

He finally got the bolt to connect right and resolutely tightened it. "Just… er… "

"Restless."

"I wouldn't say that," he said, still unable to look at her. It wasn't restlessness. It was frustration, and not over his ineptitude as a father. It was because he wanted her. Wanting and having, however, are two different things, and he was sure she was too smart to take on someone like him. A bounty hunter with a less-than-sterling reputation, wanted by the remnant of the Empire, with a kid whose very existence put everyone around him in constant danger. If he brought anyone else into his circle… his clan… they would be in danger, too. That didn't tamp down the longing, though. Just being near her, or hearing her voice, made his temperature rise.

"So what is it?"

He turned around and almost collided with her. Her hand rested on his mudhorn signet, and he felt heat rise from somewhere down below. He swallowed.

"I know I asked you to stay once before," she said softly. "I hope one day I can ask you and you'll say yes."

"I would love to," he said, feeling desperate and lost. "You know I would. But… "

"Teilo."

"I made a promise."

"I know. Would you please take your helmet off, Din? We're alone here."

He drew in his breath. "You've done it already. Go ahead… do it again," he said, gently challenging her, wanting her to know for sure that he did trust her. Totally. With his very life, and with his heart, and he knew he was putty in her hands.

Omera placed her hands on either side of his helmet and gently lifted it off. Teilo waddled over and she handed it to him, and he rolled it over and climbed inside it, gurgling happily even when it tipped over. The boy pulled it down over himself and played hidey-ho, cackling gleefully, his laughter echoing inside the helmet.

Din's knees went weak when her fingers brushed his cheek, and he could only surrender.

Her mouth gently brushed his, making every nerve ending in his body come alive, and his arm slipped slowly around her waist as their kiss deepened, him initially shy and unsure of himself, and she encouraged him to be bold, teasing him and making him hot all over. He pulled back, startled and aroused by her forwardness, and he drew in his breath, struggling desperately to maintain some degree of control.

"You're… you're seducing me."

"Is it working?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Good."

She slipped her arms around his neck and he met her halfway, needing her the way he needed water and food to stay alive. He was too shy, though, to touch the parts of her body that he wanted to touch, and she seemed understanding of his reticence. When she touched his hair, though, he pulled her closer, and when her tongue began teasing him, it took every last vestige of his self-control to keep from carrying her into the Razor Crest and letting her have her way with him. She felt so good, so right in his arms. She was it for him—the first and last woman he would ever kiss. He could only hope that one day, he would lie down with her and that he wouldn't scare her half to death or hurt her.

"We… we have to stop," he said breathlessly before kissing her again, almost desperately. "We have to, Omera."

She drew in her breath, and he prayed he hadn't hurt her. It took him several moments to regain his composure, and the kid dropped his helmet on his foot, making him yelp in pain. Omera started giggling, and he tried to glare at her, but that was impossible when she was so beautiful and he loved her so much it hurt.

"I'm sorry," he said, giving the helmet a gentle kick away, the kid pursuing it eagerly. "It's not that I don't want… "

"I certainly do."

"… to… to… you do?"

"I would," she said softly. "Not in front of him, obviously, but… yes, I would. So long as it's done properly."

"Omera, I haven't ever… "

"I know. And I know you'll be wonderful."

"You… what… I… " He swallowed, bewildered and elated and scared out of his mind. "You don't think it's weird or… I don't know… not normal that I'm… ?"

"Please," she said, rolling her eyes. "Since when has that been something to be ashamed of? And why be ashamed? I wasn't ashamed on my wedding night. There is nothing shameful or remotely abnormal in controlling your own body, is there?"

"Was your husband… ?"

"I never asked. And he's dead, Din, and he was so unselfish that I know he would want me to be happy, and you… you big soft-hearted _or'dinii_…make me happy."

"I make you… you really are crazy, then—you're trying to learn Mando'a?"

She nodded, smiling.

"Omera, I'm the worst bet you could ever make."

"I have no doubts, and I'm quite good at gambling." She smiled fondly at him and bent down to pick up the kid. "I'll take him back and feed him his supper. You might want to cover up that mark on your neck before you come back."

"What mark… ?" he asked, confused. "I… " He felt his neck and jerked a bit, startled. "Oh."

"As we say around here, you shouldn't make love by the garden gate—love is blind, but the neighbors ain't. Discretion is always best. And don't forget your helmet." She smiled at him and walked away, with him watching the gentle sway of her hips. He had never seen any view that could ever compare to her.

He stood there a long time, willing himself to calm down. She had actually made it quite clear that she wanted him, and that thrilled and confused him. Before, he could blame his concussion on why his head was spinning, but there was no excuse now. He was a goner.

Quickly, he put the helmet back on and went into the Razor Crest and up to the cockpit. He started checking the ship's engines, making sure everything was in good shape and ready for flight. He still had to go, he still had to search for the kid's species or the remaining Jedi out there, but one way to ensure his survival and return Sorgan was that his ship was in the best shape possible.

He was checking the ship's armory and blasters when he saw the 'incoming call' button flashing on the panel. Sighing wearily, he punched it and sure enough, Greef Karga's image came up, twitching a little. "Mando! I see you're up and fully operational. I've been hailing you for the past week!"

"Yeah. Been kinda busy."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm okay."

"Where are you?"

"_Somewhere_."

"Right. Okay. Listen… I have some news for you."

"Oh?"

"Moff Gideon left just hours after you did, and he was apparently _not_ in a good mood. He had every remaining stormtrooper and the last two deathtroopers executed for treason, just because they didn't stop you. He was particularly pissed with the two stormtroopers who killed your friend Kuiil and took the kid—had one of them shot dead where he lay—apparently, IG-11 beat the sh—er, stuffing out of him, and then he cut off the broken wrist of the other nitwit and had him blasted to bits. We all had to hide out in the sewers—apparently he wasn't keen on heading down there. He's a bit of a neat-freak, I think, and there's too many blind corners, and that Armorer of yours is some kind of a hard-knocking fighter. She told me to say that she has left, and took all the remaining beskar with her. I hope she'll contact you somehow some day with her whereabouts… "

"I was hoping he hadn't survived the crash," Din said ruefully. "Should have stuck on a few more chargers."

Karga nodded. "I really wish the son of a bitch had died, too, but he's gone at least. According to the Jawas, he had a rather… _interesting _weapon with him."

Din shrugged. "What? A pocket DeathStar?"

"Almost as bad. The Jawas claimed it was a sword… a black sword with light all around it, like one of those lightsaber things you hear about sometimes. It cut right through the TIE-Fighter like a hot knife through _butter_."

The Mandalorian stared at the crackling image of his former employer, his heartrate rising. The Darksabre? With _Moff Gideon_? How the hell could he have obtained it? Din had only heard brief mention of it, and only in passing. Last time anyone had said anyting about it, it had been lost in the Great Purge, but he had figured it was just hidden somewhere safe. Well, then... that's how the bastard got it then. When you kill all your enemies, of course you steal all their weapons and resources.

Now he understood why Cara hated the Imps so much. He was starting to hate the bastards a lot, too, particularly now that Gideon and his aim-challenged goons were a threat to his kid.

"So what's your plan?"

Din thought about it for a moment, running things through his mind. There was no way he could stay on Sorgan so long as Moff Gideon lived—he would lay waste to this place without a second thought, just to get the kid.

He was going to have to kill him. Simple as that. The man was a threat to his family. _Nobody_ messed with his family.

"Where's Cara?" he asked sharply.

"I haven't seen her lately, but she's still around. She's… pissed, to say the least."

"Angry or just drunk?"

Karga laughed. "Eh… take your pick. How's that little asset of yours?"

Din refused to answer. "Sure you're not being listened to?"

"Gideon's gone from Nevarro, Mando. We're still just trying to rebuild and repair all the damage he and his flunkies did."

That didn't help. So far as the safety of his family was concerned, Din didn't trust anyone, except possibly Cara and any other Mandalorian he could track down. He knew Omera would fight to defend the kid, but he wasn't willing to draw her into the fray, even if she insisted on it. He wasn't totally sure about Greef Karga, but he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt for now. "Have Cara contact me. We're going to need some more muscle to deal with Moff Gideon."

"How would you go about picking out the right kind?" Karga asked, looking confused.

"I dunno. Find some big bruiser, roll him over, thump his belly and see if he's ripe." Din cut off the line and sat back in his chair.

He had to leave. He had no choice.

* * *

_or'dinii_ = fool


	9. Chapter 9

"It's not like I really want to leave," he told the kid—Teilo. "But I made a promise. I have to find your kind, and I don't think they're here. I think _mine_ are, but that doesn't count with regards to you, and so long as Moff Gideon is out there, anywhere I go is in danger… and I can't do that to this place. Or to Omera."

The kid looked up at him, and Din wondered if he understand anything he was saying.

He had stayed on Sorgan for almost three months, even after his conversation with Greef Karga. He had pitched in with harvesting and something truly dreadful called 'sliming', a task he really hoped no one asked him about, because it would make his stomach lurch again. Teilo was doing very well, too, playing with the village children and learning some less appalling table manners and dietary habits. He had cut down to just one frog per day, to the point that the local population had a chance of recovering.

Plus he had mastered _Buir_, and said that word as often as he did 'Papa'.

Din was also doing his drills with his jetpack, to the point that he was getting better and better at controlling it every day. The kid insisted on going with him to the clearing to watch him practice, and after a while the drills became something of a comedy, because the kid _loved_ it when Din took him for flights and he would squeal, trill, coo and laugh like a little maniac the entire time. He particularly loved it when Din would toss him up in the air and shoot up to catch him, but he suspected Omera would have a stroke if she ever saw him do that.

Life in the village was… good. Really, really good. He would miss it.

No. He wouldn't miss the village that much. He could take or leave the village. He would miss Omera. So much it would cause him daily pain. Considering he was spending almost every evening with her, helping her with her chores and learning more and more about childcare (including first aid and food portions and dealing with fits of temper), he was becoming spoiled to being coddled by a warm, good-humored woman.

It was late, and he was back in his quarters in the barn, having insisted on moving out of Omera's house. He had finally won the battle of wills with her (despite her kissing him almost into a Mandalorian-shaped puddle while trying to convince him to stay in her house), and despite missing the quiet, comfortable surroundings of her bedroom, it was for the best. Her reputation was more important than the satisfaction of either of their needs, and he would not have her talked about that way.

He settled back in the makeshift bed, his armor and helmet off, and resting.

The boy squealed and kicked his legs, not happy about being confined to the crib, but lately, per Omera's advice, he had learned to obey the command of 'stay'. He still tried to push the boundaries, but Din had practiced what she had told him would work best: firm discipline, followed by a game of some kind to make Teilo stop whimpering about not getting his way. Today's little storm had been about the kid going outside while it was pouring rain. It had been a brief battle of wills, but Din had won. Of course, just like the aftermath of any battle, he was exhausted. He was coming up against a will almost as strong as his own, after all.

He planned to leave tomorrow, but he owed it to Omera to tell her first.

He stood and gave the boy a ball, which made him light up and coo happily. Din ran a hand through his hair, his anxiety rising as he tried to find a way to tell Omera he was leaving.

It was the first hot night he had experienced on Sorgan, and Din decided to go outside bare-headed, once he was sure no one was around. He suspected the kid wouldn't appreciate being covered up with a blanket, so he put it beside him instead, as an option, and stepped outside. One of those toothed birds stalked away on long legs, heading toward the swimming pond, and he followed it, his path well-lit by the moons. The stars were bright in the cloudless sky, and he searched out constellations, only recognizing a few—Mandalorians cared little for such things.

He heard a sound and turned quickly, ready for a fight, and froze in his steps when he saw Omera standing at the edge of the pond, carefully twisting her hair and pinning it up with a clip.

She was naked.

_She's trying to kill me_, he thought, but just stood still, watching her, transfixed. She was beautiful—gloriously beautiful, like something out of a fantasy. Childbirth had done nothing to her figure except to add maturity and strength. Her breasts were still full and firm and womanly, and her waist was slender, her hips flaring out gracefully before tapering again to long, slender legs.

Omera didn't seem to know he was there, and if she did, she certainly knew how to drive him crazy. She moved to the edge of the pond, drew in her breath and dove in, barely making a ripple in the water. He moved back, to get out of sight, and tripped over a log and fell flat on his back, landing in a tangle of some kind of twisting vines and absolutely disgusting duckweed. He was struggling to get out when he heard a light throat clearing. He winced, resigned himself to whatever punishment she was going to mete out, and looked up at her.

She smiled at him. "Are you all right?"

She was still naked. She wasn't even trying to cover herself with her hands.

"I'm… uh… yes. Just fine."

"Planning on going skinny dipping, too?" she asked. She didn't look at all uncomfortable. Her poise and calm was the same as though she was bartering for grinjer meat at the market.

"I was not… I wasn't… no."

"Do you know how to swim?"

He couldn't remember, actually. "Breasts. What? No. I don't… "

She started laughing, though not mockingly, and he struggled to untangle himself from the vines (were they wrapping around him, like some hideous nightmare?) and scrape the duckweed off of himself. She held out her hand, and he took it before thinking about the consequences and let her help him up in all her naked glory. He stood staring at her, still holding her hand, and when she moved closer to him, he couldn't move. He just stood there as her hands moved up to his chest and slipped up slowly to his shoulders.

"Omera, I… "

"Shh… shut up and kiss me."

"Okay." Like he'd ever refuse.

He kissed her, and she moved into his arms, inviting him to touch her as he willed. That was a serious test of his self-control—she was so warm and soft and willing, and had it not been for the sense of honor drilled into him from his childhood, he would have succumbed. It would probably kill him, but he had to.

She touched his hair and slowly moved her hands to his face, her fingertips brushing his cheeks, as if she was memorizing him by touch as well as sight. Her mouth was glorious, her hands—calloused from a lifetime of hard work—were gentle and persuasive, particularly when they moved slowly down his chest to his middle and then _lower_…

Finally, he managed to drag himself out of his sexual haze and step back, determinedly looking up and not at the vision of loveliness displayed before him.

"I won't dishonor you like that, Omera. I can't."

He expected her to become angry with him, but instead she drew in her breath and nodded, and he told himself (again and again) that the drops of moisture on her cheeks were from the water. "I understand. And I… I appreciate your… "

"Unbelievable stupidity, yes, but that's the most I can afford."

"So sleeping with me would be stupid?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"No! It would be… it would be… you would be amazing, I know, and you would be a great… teacher. But… but you have your standards and so do I, and if we… I mean, what if we did and you ended up pregnant and… people would talk about you, and I wouldn't be able to bear that."

"I understand," she said softly. "But does that mean you can't kiss me again?"

"No… hell no. But… but it would be better if you were fully clothed." He shook his head. "Not _better_, but _wiser_."

Omera moved into his arms again, and he welcomed her kiss, but determinedly kept his hands under control. He knew that if he touched her too intimately, all his resolve would crumble. She was giving him some delightful lessons in the art of kissing, that was for sure, and when he became bolder, she sighed into his mouth before breaking away and embracing him tightly, her cheek against his chest.

"Goodnight, Din," she said softly, and left him standing there, confused, terrified and cursing his damned code.

* * *

He lay on his back staring up at the ceiling and trying not close his eyes, because every time he closed his eyes, he just saw her, naked in the moonlight, like some dark, silver-hued goddess.

Damn it, but he hadn't expected it to happen. The very idea of him—a Mandalorian—becoming so overwhelmed by a woman was beyond ridiculous—good God, was she _blind_? He was no prize, that was for sure, and this _wasn't supposed to happen_! The Mandalorians he knew who married didn't necessarily marry for love but to—as one of the elders had said—cool the fires of passion that burned within them. The only problem was that Din knew that fire wouldn't cool down if he bedded Omera, married or not. He would want her, day and night. He already did, in fact, and not just sexually. He would want her presence, her warmth, her straight-forward, practical approach to problems, and her honesty and sharp intelligence and her strength and her wisdom and damn right, he wanted her body, too. It wasn't just desire, it was _need_. A constant craving.

Since that night at the pond, he had tried to avoid being completely alone with her—her visits to the barn at night were deemed safe, because the kid was there to put a damper on things going too far. His self-control—something he had always been proud of—still tended to slip when he saw her, and it made him uneasy about what he might do if she got too close. Just watching her walk across the paddys, basket in hand, and step down into the water made him need to splash cold water on his face. If he saw her naked again, or if she came to him at night when his defenses were low and the kid had gone to stay with one of the village children…

She had also seen him _naked_, and the thought of her in a similar state made him lightheaded. The fact that she had told him straight out that she was willing made him forget what he was doing sometimes and just stand there, staring off into space like some _utreekov. _That he had seen her naked as well made his bemusement rather embarrassing at times—someone would ask him a question and he would just stand there, not hearing them at all and seeing her in the moonlight, bathed in silver and so beautiful it hurt to look at her but he had to look because she was the best thing he had ever looked at in his life.

He had never allowed himself to get close to any woman, _ever_. The closest he had gotten, in strictly physical terms, and unwillingly and with considerable nausea, had been with Xi'an, and if he had been a woman and she the man, it would been called attempted rape. He had not liked what he had been forced to finally do to her to get the point across, but he suspected she was still hoping to get him back for it. He could only hope the New Republic would find her and Mayfeld and the Davoronian on the prison ship and lock them up for good. The three of them defined the word 'recidivism', that was for sure. Granted, Mayfeld was a cowardly fool and the Davoronian was just a brutal idiot, but Xi'an… she was the one who bore watching the most.

Growling at himself for being so weak and knowing its cause, he told himself that he made lousy husband or lover material, considering his chosen profession, and now he was a bewildered father to a little green kid that he adored and needed his attention and protection. He had his duty to perform, and he had to be relentless in keeping his promise. Single-minded. Devoted.

_Desperate_.

If he ever found the Jedi or others of the kid's species, he would have to give the boy—his son—up, and that thought already made him miserable. He told himself again and again that the kid would get over him leaving, but he wasn't sure if _he_ would ever recover.

He looked at the kid—he was still having trouble calling him by his name—and took a deep breath. "I have to talk to her. I have to say goodbye—I should never have let her in, even for a moment, but I did and now I have to go. It'll probably kill me, but I have to do it. It would be horrible, though, if I just snuck away like some damned coward, right? So I have to be honorable, and my _God_ do I have a headache now." Stress always gave him headaches.

The kid had no advice to offer. He began banging a little metal ball on the edge of the crib, squealing at the noise. He had become quite a fan of noise lately, to the point of waking Din up a few times every night to yowl and squeal. Sometimes Din yowled along with him as he paced back and forth, trying to get him to shut up already and go back to sleep.

He stood up, firmly telling himself to get it over with now, instead of prolonging his agony. He picked up the boy, taking the ball from him (ignoring the boy's aggrieved expression) and shoved it into a canvas bag, along with the kid's other toys (balls, the wooden rattle, the little doll, colorful rocks, odd-looking leaves, shells, the skeleton of a frog, a bizarre little gear thing, possibly from the Razon Crest and thus of unnerving origin, and the knobs for every gear in the ship's cockpit). He neatly folded the shirts and trousers Omera had made him—that had been an agonizing experience, having to stand still and not get all grabby while she measured him—and studied his cape, carefully mended with patches made of the same material. He put everything in his bag and drew in his breath. Finally, he picked the kid up, wrapped him up in his little brown cloak, and carried him outside, the two sacks over his shoulders.

The children playing near his lodgings looked up, brows furrowed, and it was clear they recognized he was leaving. Winta stood still, then turned and dashed away to the paddys, seeking her mother. Din swallowed, his vision blurring a little, but he stayed put. He had to develop a strategy here, and keep to it and _go_. He had left a few other weapons in the barn, and a tiny wooden carved model of the kid for Winta. He had even managed to find some green paint for it, so that it looked remarkably like Teilo—big eyes and ears and tiny clawed fingers.

It struck him then that a cache of weapons wasn't exactly the kind of gift one gave a woman, unless she was Cara Dune. Omera would probably prefer something a little more… personal, but he had nothing. He looked up at the brilliantly blue sky, taking slow, deep breaths to prepare himself. Strategy. I need a strategy. An escape plan… no, no, you're not escaping, you great nattering twit. You're leaving to do your duty. Like her husband had done.

And had been killed in battle.

Oh, well, that makes things ever so much _less_ unpleasant.

Omera came around the corner then, her expression guarded, and he swallowed, all thoughts of strategy scattered. She stood before him, hands folded neatly at her waist, and his knees went a little weak. Okay, so a _lot_ weak.

He cleared his throat. "I have to go, Omera."

"I know. I've noticed that you've been trying to withdraw. And you made a promise."

This woman never misses anything, he thought miserably. But… _will she miss me?_ "Yes. I… I did. I have to do it—not withdraw, I mean. I don't want to do that. But I have to. For the kid's sake. I'm not really… um… qualified… to… to raise a kid. I mean, I guess I'm not doing too badly, since he's still alive and is gaining weight and looks healthy and all… "

"And he loves you."

"Um… "

"And you love him."

His mouth was dry and he had trouble drawing breath. He did love the kid. To the point of outright panic and paranoia if he ever got out of his sight, and God help him, but he did enjoy just being with the pesky little nuisance, listening to him gurgle and coo and chitter and occasionally shriek for a meal of hopping amphibians.

"It's all right to love someone, Din."

He could only nod, totally bewildered and feeling so lonely he thought he might wither away and die.

"You'll come back soon," she said quietly.

"I… I don't know… I'll try."

"Yes. I know you will, and you'll succeed." She gave him a bright smile, but her eyes were moist and he felt like a total ass for just _abandoning_ her.

"Omera… I can't guarantee than I'll come back. Nobody knows what's in the future… anything could happen. What I promised to do is pretty dangerous, and… "

She put her hand on the side his helmet, and he cursed it for shielding him from her. "It's all right," she said softly. "I've been through this before."

"But you shouldn't have to go through it. I know I'm not being… being fair. That I'm… "

"You have your priorities, Din. You have to do what's right, and your first duty is to Teilo. You have to do it."

He set the boy down then, and he immediately toddled over to the group of children, who looked downright gloomy at losing their unusual little playmate. They were all hugging him and taking turns cuddling him, and Din felt a lump forming in his throat. Never in his life had he felt any kind of sorrow on leaving anywhere, and frequently he had had to leave in a hurry to avoid being killed. Leaving here, however, already felt like a part of him was being torn out.

The kid came waddling back to him after a while and raised his arms, asking to be carried. Din shook his head, though, and looked at Omera. "Maybe… maybe you could walk with me to the Razor Crest?"

"Of course."

Other villagers were standing around by then, having gotten word that he was leaving, and some of them murmured quiet, polite goodbyes and thanks for his help, and some even wished him safe journey. No one said anything about Omera walking into the forest with him, both going very slowly for the kid's sake. Neither spoke as they walked, listening to the birds calling and the kid's excited chittering.

Finally, they came to the clearing where the Razor Crest waited, gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. Din punched a button and the door opened and the ramp slid down, smacking onto the ground and sending a bunch of birds whirling into the sky, screaming in overly dramatic terror. He picked up the kid and carried him inside, quietly ordering him to sit still for a bit. The kid looked up at him, wide, guileless eyes wondering, and he briefly touched his head, smoothing back his fuzzy white hair. "Little womp rat," he said softly. "Rest for a bit, eh?"

He went back to Omera, his heart starting to pound, and finally he removed his helmet. "We're alone out here," he said.

"Yes."

"So… so I can… I can say goodbye properly." He felt more than a little shaky and nervous, but she was… family. His family. She had seen him, and that couldn't be taken back. He had seen her, too.

"Oh. Okay."

He couldn't bear it any more. He settled his hand on her hip and gently pulled her to him, her arms slipping around his waist.

"I have to go," he said, struggling to maintain his self-control as he rested his forehead on hers. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, her fingers tunneling through his hair. His hands moved to her breasts, still a little shy, but when she started trailing kisses on his jaw and then to his neck, any semblance of propriety vanished in a haze. He lifted her up off her feet, and she boldly hooked her leg over his hip, and if it hadn't been for his beskar, he would just let her take him, right then and there. He let his hands explore, cupping her breasts and liking how they filled his hands.

A cooing sound brought them back to earth, and he could only gave the kid a sharp glare. Of course, the kid didn't seem to mind.

"I'm sorry… " he said.

"I'm not. Not sorry for kissing you and letting you fondle me every night for the past two months, or for removing your helmet. Or seeing you naked." She gave him a naughty little smile. "Or that you saw me."

He exhaled, then drew his breath in slowly.

"Quite impressive," she said with a delightfully naughty smile.

"Oh… um… I don't think I've ever… and you…" he swallowed. "Spectacular."

"And you're not vain. That's a plus."

"I guess so. You… you're… beautiful. I'd love to see you naked again someday." He blinked, startled. "Well, that was just _vulgar_… "

"No it wasn't. It's human. And next time I see you naked, I really hope it's not just to clean up wounds, and that I'm in a similar state."

She was in for a surprise, then because he wasn't exactly experienced. She would be a great teacher, that was for sure. "Omera, it might be a long time. I… I don't want you to feel like you're obligated… "

"I am. I belong to you."

He closed his eyes, barely able to process what she was saying. _She belongs to me_. To _me_. To **_me_**?

Somehow he managed to reel his heart back down from the skies and searched around for words. "I won't hold you to that, Omera. It wouldn't be fair. You're still young, and you could… " He studied her face, her steady gaze cutting away at his fear and uncertainty. "I just want you to be happy. That's all I'll ever want for you. To be safe and happy."

"I will have to wait 'til you come back then," she said, lifting her chin a little. "What, you think I'm not familiar with this? I said goodbye to my husband and I was faithful to him. He died and I stayed faithful to him. Then I met you, and I've been faithful, and I will be faithful to you until you come home or I hear otherwise."

"But… " He swallowed. "I'll be faithful, too. I swear it… "

She silenced him by kissing him again, not caring a whit that the kid was still watching them, wide-eyed and curious. Din pulled her back into his arms, holding her close and exploring her sweet mouth and running his hands over her lovely body. When they finally, reluctantly pulled back for air, he touched her cheek and felt searing pain when he saw her tears. "Please don't cry… Omera… " He closed his eyes, cursing Moff Gideon again.

"When you come back, don't even knock on the door. Just come in and lie down next to me."

"I will," he said, nodding. "Omera… this wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to… but I did. I fell in love with you, and you have no idea how much this is killing me. I don't want to go, but I have to. I made a promise. This is the Way…"

"I know. And I love you."

He had heard people say that their heart skipped a beat because of some person they were smitten with, but his heart didn't skip a beat. It did a backflip and ran around in his chest like a lunatic. It took him a few moments to collect himself, and finally had to release her from his embrace. "Will you marry me, when I come back?"

"Yes. Yes, I will, Din. Yes."

"You will? Good… okay." He looked at the kid, struggling to keep himself under control. "I don't know how long… "

"Yesterday is dead, Din, and tomorrow is blind. Today is a gift—I think that's why it's called the present. Stop worrying about tomorrow—it just gives you ulcers. You'll drive yourself mad worrying about tomorrow, much less _yesterday_. I know you'll come back."

"How do you know that?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"Because you're you."

He kissed her again, glorying in her sweetness and courage, and after several moments of just standing there, learning even more about each other, he reluctantly pulled away. "I will come back to you. I promise."

She smiled at him, and he smiled back and picked up the kid, settling him in the crook of his arm like a pro. He finally turned and strode up the ramp into the ship, putting his helmet on. The kid burbled at him, with a questioning look on his face. He turned back and punched the button, and saw her standing there, so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her, and knew he would come back. He didn't care if he had to come back from the dead to keep his promise, but he would come back.

Because he knew for sure that from now on, the Way would always lead him back to her.


	10. Chapter 10

**THE MASTER**

The half-circle of younglings at his feet were staring up at him, wiggling and whispering, full of energy and curiosity—it was like teaching a herd of rabbits. They had arrived that morning, delivered by their parents, and he had watched as loving families separated at the gates of the temple. Mothers and fathers showered their children with kisses through their tears, and he watched as the children were given their instructions: obey the Master, learn from him, and be good.

"This is your first day here," he said. "I will not cause you more stress than necessary. Parting from your parents is difficult and painful, so today will be… fun, I hope."

One of the children—a dark-haired girl with a look of determination about her—raised her hand, and he nodded. "Yes, child?"

"Will I see my mother again?"

"I do not predict the future. What is your name?"

"Kerala Djarin, Master Teilo."

He studied the girl and smiled a little. Yes—his father was in this child. Strong-willed, fierce, protective, unafraid. Flawed. Kind. Proud. Devoted. _Human_. The Force was strong in her.

"You are from the great Clan Djarin."

She nodded, and he noted the not-inconsiderable pride the girl had in her family. She did indeed come from a great people among the Mandalorians. Mandalore the Protector—he remembered his father finding that title rather amusing ("More like 'Mandalore the Perpetually Confused," he had said on learning what the others called him.), but it had been an apt description.

"Seven hundred years have passed since Din Djarin marched away. He is not forgotten, and his own force is strong within you, is it not?"

"My father has told me the stories of our ancestor. He was the greatest Mandalorian of all."

Din would have laughed at such a notion. Teilo did not, however.

"He was indeed," he said. "You were named for his own mother."

"Yes, Master."

"Consider yourself doubly honored, child. You are a Mandalorian and a Jedi. Tell me… how is your family doing on Sorgan?"

"Very well, sir. My older sister Monevassia will be married in two weeks, and my brothers are training in the Way."

"Very good. Monevassia is still cheerful?"

"Always, Master. She smiles and laughs all the time."

Teilo smiled, pleased, and looked past the children and smiled at the guardians of the temple. Memories of his father's wedding to Omera Cassaleria, so many years ago, were some of the happiest of his life—it had been such a joyful day, and Winta—dear, wonderful Winta—had relished being her mother's attendant for the ceremony. Din Djarin had been nervous and almost forgot his vows, but he had certainly meant them, with his whole heart. Nine months later, Kelso Djarin had arrived, screaming in outraged indignation at being pushed into a cold winters' night. Teilo had still been a child then, but had been first (after his parents) to be allowed to hold the baby. Din had gone a bit weak in the knees, Teilo remembered, but he had never told anyone about it, and never would. Mandalorians don't admit to such things, nor do they admit to tears, and Tielo knew that Din had wept that night, too, away from everyone else, holding Teilo as he shed grateful, relieved tears at being given a son and that Omera had come through the ordeal in excellent health. Kelso had been the first of eight children: six strong sons and two beautiful daughters. Teilo still didn't know how Omera had managed it, but she had, and she had never complained even once. "Children are a blessing," she had said. "Only foolish parents can make them a curse."

Ten guards were stationed between the columns of the temple, and another ten stood at the gates. All Mandalorians. All members of Clan Djarin. They were all sworn to protect the younglings and padawans being trained in the temple, and would give their lives to save them from any harm. Teilo knew them all by name, and liked them. They were generally quiet, stoic men, but he knew their hearts… and their puckish sense of humor. They all enjoyed pulling pranks on him, and he was happy to give as good as he got.

The head of the clan and Commander of the Guards—Arazi Djarin—stood at the entrance of the training arena. He was not as tall as Din had been, but he was as strong as a Mythosaur and as ferocious in his devotion to the protection of the younglings as he was of his own children.

Little Kerala, Teilo knew, was his second-born daughter, and he had rejoiced on hearing she had been born with the Force. Arazi had been unnerved by it and her abilities, but Teilo had eased his worries by vowing to protect his little daughter and to train her well in the ways of the Jedi and of the Mandalorians, just as his great ancestor had done.

"Were you really raised as a Mandalorian?" one of the other children asked.

"I was." Teilo, startled from his memories, shuffled across the training yard and up to the armory. Several lightsabers were displayed there, but at its center was the Darksaber. "I am honored to call myself a Jedi and an honorary Mandalorian."

His father had had to go through such trials to protect him and retrieve the saber from Moff Gideon and the Imperial remnant, often resulting in pain, severe injuries, exhaustion, sorrow, and distress. Teilo wasn't entirely sure how his father had survived it all, but Omera had summed up the reasons for his actions quite succinctly, as she always did: Love.

"You were raised by my ancestor? Din Djarin?" Kerala asked.

"Yes, little niece," Teilo said, smiling a little. "So many generations have passed since his time and yours, and yet you carry yourself like him. With dignity and confidence, and if your father's reports of you are true, you have his courage and determination, too. Din Djarin was the most tenacious and strong-willed person I've ever known… and also the kindest."

The girl preened a little. "My mother never says that I _can_ do something. She says that I _will_," Kerala said quietly. "She and Papa are like that. And I will, Master Teilo. I will serve with honor and courage."

"Let tomorrow take care of tomorrow's troubles, child. Pray you have Din Djarin's kindness and compassion, in addition to the traits needed to be a Jedi. But you need one more thing that I think the Jedi forgot to utilize at times, but that the Mandalorians—and Din Djarin—have always possessed and never surrendered."

"What is that, Master?"

"Love, child. My father had trouble saying what he felt, but his deeds spoke the words of his heart. Whatever troubles came—and _many_ came, I assure you—he never gave up, and would not yield when it came to my safety and well-being, or that of Omera or his children. He could only have done it out of love. I did the same for him—we protected each other."

"Did he ever say he loved you?"

Teilo smiled. "A few times." He gracefully turned the saber in his hand, slicing through the air and hearing its low hum. "Words were not his forte. He even had trouble speaking what was in his heart to his beloved Omera. He returned to her after much travail, and they had eight children together—there's evidence enough of love if ever was. I watched them all grow up, and played with them. They were my siblings."

"Eight?" Kerala looked bewildered. "Why so many?"

Teilo wasn't about to tell the child that Din and Omera could barely keep their hands off each other. That kind of love—fierce, protective, unselfish and unyielding—could only result in many strong children.

"I suppose they didn't want nine."

Teilo turned to see Arazi standing behind his daughter, his hand on her shoulder. "Uncle."

"Nephew. Your little daughter is full of questions."

"As always. She asks questions all day."

"That is good. He who knows and knows he knows is wise. He who does not know and knows he does not know is smart—he can be taught. He who does not know and does not know he does not know is stupid, and he must be left behind."

"Then I suppose I needn't worry about this one," Arazi said. "Her greatest strength is her humility."

"That is good." Teilo touched the girl's forehead. "Never stop asking, child. Always be curious, and always be willing to learn, and always be humble. Stop learning and you stop living."

Arazi directed his daughter back to the little group of younglings and returned to his post at the gate. Teilo watched him walk away and couldn't keep from smiling. He would sit with Arazi tonight and talk about the family back on Sorgan—births and deaths and weddings and krill and laughter and squabbling and all the in-betweens. It had been because of Din Djarin that they were all well and safe and happy. They even tended to look like him—the same dark features and unyielding devotion.

Teilo turned the saber in his hand, remembering the battles he had fought with it as his own weapon. He had the scars to show for it, but he was alive and well, and was training up another generation to continue the fight against darkness. His father had used it, and with frightening efficiency, but did not like swords. In fact, he had never liked violence for the sake of violence. Such things were only done if all other options had been eliminated or if an innocent's life was in danger.

He fingered the Mythosaur skull hanging from the cord around his neck and smiled. Carefully, he extracted the silver gear ball from the Razor Crest from the pocket in his tunic and held it up to the light. Even today, he still enjoyed playing with it, as had Din Djarin's own children and grandchildren through several generations. The skull and the little silver ball were his two most prized possessions, along with the honor and duty his father had taught him. He was carrying on a great tradition now, and would continue to do so until he also walked away.

Teilo smiled and turned back to the younglings.

"So… who would like to hear the story of the Battle of the Mudhorn?"

Kerala smiled. She knew it already. Teilo touched her face, feeling his father's spirit in her.

How like him she is, he thought as he began telling the story.

Din Djarin would be proud.


End file.
